The Delafield Affair. Florence Finch Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ he has done on the case has been for me. I have considerable interest in it.”

      “Have you, indeed? Now, this is a coincidence! For some time past I’ve been a good deal interested in that matter myself. I suppose you were roped into some of his schemes?”

      For a moment Curtis took counsel with himself upon what and how much he should say, only to thrust back his repulsion against saying anything at all to this man and plunge frankly into his narrative. With the utmost brevity he told of his father’s ruin and of his own trailing of the culprit through so many years. Of his motives he said nothing, and of his work in tracking Delafield no more than was necessary. Few, even of his best friends, knew anything about the secret scheme of vengeance he had nursed from boyhood. Even Littleton, the detective who had aided him in the quest, did not know that he wanted to face Delafield for any reason other than to demand restitution.

      Having briefly outlined his story, Conrad went on to say that Littleton had led him to think that Jenkins must be engaged in the same search, and suggested that an exchange of their discoveries might be for their mutual benefit.

      Jenkins listened with evident interest, asking questions here and there concerning certain points in the other’s long chase of the fugitive. “Yes; you’ve done very well, Conrad,” he said, admiration in his voice, “very well indeed. That was a damned crooked trail and you’ve done a fine piece of work in following it through.”

      Curtis gnawed his moustache and frowned. Jenkins’s evasive speeches were increasing his irritation and repugnance almost beyond his control. “The amount of the matter is,” he burst out, “I’ve got the notion that you know who Delafield is, and I’m willing to pay you for the information. I shall undoubtedly be able to find out for myself if I keep at it a little longer, but it happens that I want to know at once. If you know positively who he is, I am willing to pay you three hundred dollars for the knowledge.”

      Jenkins walked to the window and stood there silently. He was weighing one thing against another, and deciding whether he should tell the whole truth, a part of it, or none at all. Presently he said to himself that a bird in the hand to-day is worth a whole flock that may be in the bush to-morrow.

      “Before I decide about your offer, Mr. Conrad,” he began cautiously, “there are two or three things I would like to know. You are doing some good work for Martinez for Congress, I understand.”

      “The best I can,” answered Curtis with surprise.

      “Well, as you know, I am warmly in his favor myself. I want to get him the support of as many leading men in the Territory as possible. This man Delafield is one of Baxter’s influential lieutenants, and I particularly want to win him over to Martinez. You, I happen to know, have some influence with him.”

      A nervous start betrayed the strain Conrad was under, and an eager look lighted his face. Jenkins saw it, smiled blandly, and inwardly decided to demand another hundred dollars. “It has occurred to me,” he went on, “that you might be able to influence him when I couldn’t. Combine this leverage with your friendship, and I believe almost anything is possible. If I let you have this information will you agree to use it and your influence in such a way as to induce him to join in with Johnny Martinez?”

      The look that blazed in Conrad’s eyes, coupled with the same involuntary shrinking movement that he had made in escaping Jenkins’s hand at the foot of the stairway, showed the rapid ebbing of his self-control. Jenkins noticed both look and movement, and a gleam of angry resentment flashed into his dark eyes. But it was quickly repressed, as he suavely asked, “Well, what do you say?”

      “I don’t know that I can promise,” said Curtis, stiffly, “that my influence would count as much as that. Possibly it will be enough to keep him from supporting Dellmey Baxter. Yes,” he went on with a grim look, “I think I can assure you he will be neutral through the rest of this campaign.”

      “That might perhaps be satisfactory,” said Jenkins meditatively, inwardly deciding to raise the price another hundred dollars in lieu of the aid for Martinez. “But if that is all you’re sure of doing I shall have to ask more money for the information. It has cost me a great deal of time and effort, and if I can’t bring about this result with it I must repay myself some other way. I will tell you what you want to know, Mr. Conrad, if you will give me five hundred dollars and your promise to do your best to get him to support Martinez.”

      “That is what I said I could not do; and you are asking more money because I could not promise it.”

      “Well, then, if you will promise to induce him to remain neutral during this campaign.”

      “Yes; I will promise that, and I will give you the five hundred dollars.”

      “Very well; it’s a bargain.”

      Curtis wrote his check for that sum on the First National Bank of Golden. Jenkins examined the bit of paper, folded it away in his pocket-book, rubbed his hands, and smiled at Conrad.

      “You will be surprised,” he said, “when you hear the man’s name. He is well known to you, and he is universally regarded, all over New Mexico, as a model citizen, as square and honest as any man in the Territory—and much more so than most of them.”

      “Yes?” said Conrad, rising and reaching for his hat.

      “Yes, you will be astonished, I promise you,” Jenkins went on, rising and facing Curtis, still smiling and rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. “For Sumner L. Delafield, the fugitive from justice,”—he began speaking slowly and impressively,—“the absconding defaulter, the man who sank the fortunes of hundreds of people, the man who had to hide in Canada and slink around in out-of-the-way places for so many years, is now known as”—there was a brief pause to give his revelation its fullest dramatic effect—“is now known in New Mexico as Alexander Bancroft, president of the bank on which your check is drawn.”

      Conrad started, and his attitude of eager attention stiffened. For an instant half a dozen Jenkinses seemed to be whirling about the room. Out of the repugnance, contempt, and anger boiling in his veins shot a definite idea,—the desire to choke the man who had said this thing about his best friend. He leaped forward, seized Jenkins by the collar, and shook him as if he had been a ten-year-old boy. Although his arms were flying hither and yon Jenkins grabbed wildly for the pistol in his pocket. Curtis saw the movement, and with his left hand seized the butt. As he pulled it out Jenkins caught its barrel; but with a twist of his right arm and a jerk with his left Conrad wrested the gun from the other’s hand and threw it under the bed.

      His face white and his eyes blazing, he grasped Jenkins by the shoulders and jammed him against the wall until the windows rattled. With two quick, backward strides he gained the door. Opening it with a hand stretched behind him, Curtis spoke with deliberate emphasis, pointing his words with a menacing forefinger:

      “Rutherford Jenkins, you are the damnedest liar and vilest skunk that ever made tracks in New Mexico, and if you ever tell that lie about Bancroft to another living soul I’ll wring your neck!”

      Jenkins sprang toward the door, but as it closed from without he stooped, shook himself together, and swore under his breath. He took out the check, and chuckled. “I’ll get it cashed before he changes his mind,” he thought. Then a wave of anger and resentment rolled over him and he shook an impotent fist at the closed door. “Damn him!” he said aloud, “I’ll get even with him yet.”

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