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Crevice, The

<h2>CHAPTER XIX</h2> <h3>THE UNSEEN LISTENER</h3></div> “There’s a man outside who wishes to speak to you, sir. Says his name is Hicks, but won’t tell his business.” Blaine looked up from the paper. “Never heard of him. What sort of a man, Marsh?” “Old, white-haired, carries himself like an old family servant of some sort. Looks as if he’d been crying. He’s trembling so he can scarcely stand, and seems deeply affected by something. Says he has a message for you, and must see you personally.” “Very well. Show him in.” “Thank you for receiving me, sir.” A quavering old voice sounded from the doorway a moment later, and Blaine turned in his chair to face the aged, erect, black-clad figure which stood there. “Come in, Hicks.” The detective’s voice was kindly. “Sit down here, and tell me what I can do for you.” “I bring you a message, sir.” The man tottered to the chair and sank into it. “A message from the dead.” Blaine leaned forward suddenly. “You were––” “Mr. Rockamore’s valet, sir, and his father’s before him. I loved him as if he were my own son, if you will pardon the liberty I take in saying so, and when he came to this country I accompanied him. He was always good to me, sir, a kind young master and a real friend. It was I who found him this morning––” <div>273</div> His voice broke, and he bowed his head upon his wrinkled hands. No tears came––but the thin shoulders shook, and a dry sob tore its way from the gaunt throat. Blaine waited until the paroxysm had ceased, and then urged, gently: “Go on, Hicks. You have something to tell me?” “Yes, sir. The coroner and the press call it accidental death, but I––may God forgive me for saying it––I know better! He left word where none could find it but me, that you knew the truth, and he bade me give you––this!” He produced a large, square envelope from an inner pocket, and extended it in his trembling hand to the detective. Without glancing at it, Blaine laid it on the desk before him. “Where did you discover this?” “There is a flat, oblong casket of old silver, shaped somewhat like a humidor––a family relic, sir––which stands upon the center-table in the den. Whenever Mr. Rockamore had any message to leave for me in writing, concerning his confidential business, which he did not wish the other servants to have access to, he always slipped it into the casket. After the coroner had come and gone this morning, and some of the excitement had died down, I went back to the den, to straighten it. I don’t know why, but somehow I half suspected the truth. Perhaps it was the expression of his face––so peaceful and resigned, with all the hard, sneering lines the years had brought gone from it, so that he looked almost like a boy again, the bonny boy who used to ride helter-skelter on his pony through the lanes of Staffordshire, long ago.” The aged man spoke half to himself and seemed to 274 have fallen into a reverie, which Blaine made no attempt to break in upon. At length he roused himself with a little start, and went on. “At any rate, when I had the room in order, and was standing by the table taking a last look about, my hand rested on the casket, and quite without thinking, sir, I raised the lid. There within it lay a sealed envelope with my name on it! Inside was a certified check for two thousand pounds made out to me––he didn’t forget me, even at the last––and that letter for you, together with a little note asking me to––to take him home. Is it true, sir, that you do know the whole truth?” “I think I do,” Blaine responded gravely. “I did the best I could for your late master, Hicks, all that I could do which was compatible with my duty, and now my lips are sealed. I cannot betray his confidence. You intend to accompany the body to England?” “Of course, sir,” the old man said simply. “It was his last request of me, who have never refused him anything in all his life. When I have seen him laid beside the others of the House of Stafford, I will go back to the castle, to his father, and end my days there. My course is nearly run, and this great new country has no place in it for the aged. I––I will go now, sir. I have much to attend to, and my master is lying alone.” When the old servant had taken his departure, Henry Blaine picked up the envelope. It was addressed in a firm, unshaken hand, and with a last touch of the sardonic humor characteristic of the dead man, it had been stamped with the seal of the renowned and honored House of Stafford. The detective broke the seal, and lifting the flap, drew out the folded letter page and became immediately absorbed in its contents. He read: <div>275</div> <div style="font-size:0.85em; margin: 0.5em 2.5em;"> In view of your magnanimity to-night, I feel that this explanation––call it a confession, if you will––is your due. If you consider it your duty to give it to the world at large, you must do so, but for God’s sake be as merciful as you can to those at home, who will suffer enough, in all conscience, as the affair now stands. Your accusation was justified. I killed Pennington Lawton in the manner and for the reason which you alleged. I made an appointment by telephone just after dinner, to call upon him late that night. I tried by every means in my power to induce him to go in on a scheme to which, unknown to him, I had already committed him. He steadfastly refused. His death was the only way for me to obviate exposure and ruin, and the disgrace of a prison sentence. I anticipated his attitude and had come prepared. During a heated period of our discussion, he walked to the desk and stood for a moment with his shoulder turned to me, searching for a paper in his private drawer. I saw my chance, and seized upon it. I was standing before his chair, I may explain, watching him over its high back. I took the vial of prussic acid from my pocket, uncorked it and poured a few drops into his high-ball glass. I had recorked the vial, and was on the point of returning it to its hiding-place, when he turned to me. Had I raised my hand to my pocket he would have noticed the gesture; as it was, the back of the chair screened me, and on a sudden desperate impulse I thrust the vial deep in the leather fold between the seat and back. Lawton drank, and died. I left the house, as I thought, unnoticed and secure from detection. On subsequent visits to the house I endeavored to regain possession of the vial, but on each occasion I failed in my purpose, and at length it fell into the hands of Anita Lawton. I have no more to say. Of earlier events at home in England, which you and I discussed to-night, it is better that I remain silent. You, of all men, will appreciate my motive. And now, Blaine, good-night. Please accept my heartfelt thanks for the manner in which you handled a most difficult situation to-night. You have beaten me fairly at my own game. It may be that we shall meet again, somewhere, some time. In all sincerity, yours, Arthur Bertrand Rockamore. </div> The detective folded the letter slowly and returned it to its envelope. Then he sat for long buried in thought. Rockamore had taken the solitary loophole of escape from overwhelming disgrace left to him. He had, as 276 far as in him lay, expiated his crimes. What need, then, to blazon them forth to a gaping world? Pennington Lawton had died of heart-disease, so said the coroner. The press had echoed him, and the public accepted that fact. Only two living persons beside the coroner knew the truth, and Blaine felt sure that the gentle spirit of Anita Lawton would be merciful––her thirst for vengeance upon her father’s murderer sated by his self-inflicted death––to those of his blood, who, innocent, must be dragged in the mire by the disclosure of his infamy. When Henry Blaine presented himself an hour later at her home, he found Anita inexpressibly shocked by the tragic event of the night. “He was guilty!” she murmured. “He took his own life to escape falling into your hands! That gunshot was no accident, Mr. Blaine. He murdered my father in cold blood, but he has paid. I abhor his memory, and yet I can find it in my heart to be sorry for him!” In silence, the detective placed in her hands the letter of the dead man, and watched her face as she slowly read it. When she looked up, her eyes were wet, and a tiny red spot glowed in either cheek. “Poor Father!” she moaned. “With all his leadership and knowledge of men, he was helpless and unsuspecting in the hands of that merciless fiend! And yet even he thought of his own people at the last, and wanted to spare them. Oh, how I wish we could! If we might only keep from them forever the knowledge of his wickedness, his crime!” “We can, if you are willing.” Blaine met her look of startled inquiry, and replied to it with a brief résumé of his interview of the previous 277 evening with Rockamore. When he added his suggestion that the matter of the way in which her father came to his death be buried in oblivion, and the public left to believe the first report, she was silent for a time. “But the coroner who performed the autopsy night before last,” she remarked, at length, hesitatingly. “He will make the truth public, will he not?” “Not necessarily. That depends upon you. If you wish it, nothing will ever be known.” “I think you are right, Mr. Blaine. Father’s death has been avenged; neither you nor I can do more. The man who killed him has gone to his last account. Further notoriety and scandal cannot help Father, or bring him back to me. It would only cause needless suffering to those who are no more at fault than we ourselves. If the coroner can be silenced, we will keep our secret, you and I.” “Unless,”––Blaine’s voice was very grave––“unless it becomes necessary to divulge it in order to get the rest of them within our grasp.” “The rest?” she looked up as if she had scarcely heard. “Mallowe and Carlis and Paddington and the horde of lesser conspirators in their hire. We must recover your father’s immense fortune, and find out how it was possible for them to divert it to their own channels. There is Mr. Hamilton to be thought of, too––his injury, his kidnaping! If we can succeed in unraveling this mysterious tangle of events without recourse to the fact of our knowledge of the murder, well and good. If not, we must make use of whatever has come to our hand. With the rest of the malefactors brought to justice, you can afford to be magnanimous even to the dead man who has done you the most grievous wrong of all.” <div>278</div> “It shall be as you say––” She broke off suddenly as her eyes, looking beyond Blaine’s shoulder, fell upon a silent figure in the doorway. “Mr. Mallowe!” she cried. “When did you come? How is it that Wilkes failed to announce you?” “I arrived just at this moment.” The smooth, unctuous tones floated out upon the strained tension of the air. “I told Wilkes I would come right up. He told me Mr. Blaine was with you, and I wish to congratulate him on his marvelous success. Surely you do not mind the liberty I took in announcing myself, my dear child?” “Not at all,” Anita responded, coldly. “To which success of Mr. Blaine’s do you refer, Mr. Mallowe?” “Why, to his discovery of Ramon, of course.” Mr. Mallowe looked from one to the other of them as if nonplused by Anita’s unexpected attitude. Then he continued hurriedly, with a show of enthusiasm. “It was wonderful, unprecedented! But how did Ramon come to be in Mac Alarney’s retreat, and so shockingly injured?” “The same people who ran him down the day Miss Lawton sent for him to come to her aid––the day she learned of her father’s insolvency.” Blaine spoke quickly, before the girl had an opportunity to reply. “The same people who on two other separate occasions attempted his life!” “You cannot mean to tell me that there is some conspiracy on foot against Ramon Hamilton!” Mallowe’s face was a picture of shocked amazement. “But why? He is the most exemplary of young men, quite a model in these days––” “Because he is a man, and prepared to protect and 279 defend to the last ounce of his strength the thing which he loved better than life itself––the thing which, but for him, stood helpless and alone, surrounded by enemies and hopelessly entangled in the meshes of a gigantic conspiracy!” “You speak in riddles, Mr. Blaine.” Mallowe’s gray brows drew together. “Riddles which will soon be answered, Mr. Mallowe. Miss Lawton’s natural protector––her father––had been ruthlessly removed by––death. Only Mr. Hamilton stood between her and the machinations of those who thought they had her in their power. Therefore, Mr. Hamilton was also removed, temporarily. Do I make myself quite clear now?” “It is impossible, incredible! What enemies could this dear child here have made, and who could wish to harm her? Besides, am I not here? Do not I and my friends stand <ins title="''in loco parentis'' was italicized in the original text">in loco parentis</ins> to her?” “As you doubtless are aware, one of Miss Lawton’s pseudo-guardians, at least, has involuntarily resigned his wardenship,” Blaine remarked. “You refer to the sudden death last night of my associate, Mr. Rockamore?” Mallowe shook his head dolorously. “A terrible accident! The news was an inexpressible shock to me! It was to comfort Miss Lawton for the blow which the loss of this devoted friend must be to her that I came to-day.” “I fancy the loss itself will be consolation enough, Mr. Mallowe. The accident was tragic, of course. It takes courage to clean a gun, sometimes––more courage, perhaps, than to spill into a glass an ingredient not usually included in a Scotch highball, let us say.” “Mr. Blaine, if you are inclined to be facetious, sir, 280 let me tell you this is neither the time nor place for an attempt at a jest! When Miss Lawton called you in, the other day, and engaged you to search for Mr. Hamilton––” “Oh, she didn’t call me in then, Mr. Mallowe! I’ve been on the case from the start, all this last month, in fact, and in close touch with Miss Lawton every day.” Mallowe started back, the light of comprehension dawning swiftly in his eyes, only instantly to be veiled with a film of craftiness. “What case?” he asked. “Ramon Hamilton has not been missing for a month.” “The case of the death of Pennington Lawton! The case of his fraudulently alleged bankruptcy! The case of the whole damnable conspiracy to crush this girl to the earth, to impoverish her and tarnish the fair name and honored memory of her father. It’s cards on the table now, Mr. Mallowe, and I’m going to win!” “You must be mad!” exclaimed the older man. “This talk of a conspiracy is ridiculous, absurd!” “Mr. Rockamore called me ‘mad,’ also, yesterday afternoon, standing just where you stand now, Mr. Mallowe.” The detective met the lowering eyes squarely. “Yet he went home and––accidentally shot himself! A curiously opportune shot that! Miss Lawton’s enemies depended too confidently upon her credulity in accepting without question the unsubstantiated assertion of her father’s insolvency. They did not take into account the possibility that their henchman, Paddington, might fail, or turn traitor; that Mac Alarney might talk to save his own hide; that Jimmy Brunell’s forgeries might be traced to their source; that the books in the office of the Recorder of Deeds might divulge interesting items to those sufficiently concerned to delve 281 into the files of past years! You discharged your clerk on the flimsiest of excuses, Mr. Mallowe––but you did not discharge her quite soon enough. Rockamore’s stenographer, and the switchboard operator in Carlis’ office,––who, like your filing clerk, came from Miss Lawton’s club,––were also dismissed too late. As I have said, my cards are on the table now. Are you prepared to play yours?” For answer, Mallowe turned slowly to Anita, his face a study of pained surprise and indignation. “My dear girl, I do not understand one word of what this person is saying, but he is either mad, or intoxicated with his success in locating Ramon, to the extent that he is endeavoring to build up a fictitious case on a maze of lies. Any notoriety will bring him welcome publicity, and that is all he is looking for. I shall take immediate steps to have his incomprehensible and dangerous allegation suppressed. Such a man is a menace to the community! In the meantime, I must beg of you to dismiss him at once. Do not listen to him, do not allow him to influence you! You are only an impulsive, credulous girl, and he is using you as a mere tool for his own ends. I cannot imagine how you happened to fall into his clutches.” Anita faced him, straight and slim and tall, and her soft eyes seemed fairly to burn into his. “I am not so credulous as you think, Mr. Mallowe. I never for a moment believed your assertion that my father died a pauper, and I took immediate steps to disprove it. Doctor Franklin was your tool, when he came to me with your message, but not I! And I shouldn’t advise you to try, at this late date, to ‘suppress’ Mr. Blaine. Many other malefactors have attempted it, I understand, in the past, but I never heard of any of them 282 meeting with conspicuous success. You and my other two self-appointed guardians must have been desperate indeed to have risked trying to hoodwink me with so ridiculous and vague a story as that of the loss of my father’s fortune!” “This is too much!” Mallowe stormed. “Young woman, you forget yourself! Because of the evil suggestions, the malevolent influence of this man’s plausible lies, are you such an ingrate as to turn upon your only friends, your father’s intimate, life-long associates, the people who have, from disinterested motives of the purest kindness and affection, provided for you, comforted you, and shielded you from the world? Anita, I cannot believe it of you! I will leave you, now. I am positively overcome with this added shock of your ingratitude and willful deceit, coming so soon after the blow of my poor friend’s death. I trust you will be in a thoroughly repentant frame of mind when next I see you. “As for you, sir!” He turned to the immovable figure of the detective. “I will soon show you what it means to meddle with matters which do not concern you––to pit yourself arrogantly against the biggest power in this country!” “The biggest power in this or any other country is the power of justice.” Blaine’s voice rang out trenchantly. “When you and your associates planned this desperate coup, it was as a last resort. You had involved yourselves too deeply; you had gone too far to retrace your steps. You were forced to go on forward––and now your path is closed with bars of iron!” “I will not remain here any longer to be insulted! Miss Lawton, I shall never cross the threshold of this house again––this house, which only by my charity 283 you have been suffered to remain in––until you apologize for the disgraceful scene here this morning. I can only hope that you will soon come to your senses!” As he strode indignantly from the room, Anita turned anxiously to Henry Blaine. “Oh, what will he do?” she whispered. “He is really a power, a money-power, you know, Mr. Blaine! Where will he go now?” “Straight to his confrère Carlis, and tell him that the game is up.” The detective spoke with brisk confidence. “He’ll be tailed by my men, anyway, so we shall soon have a report. Don’t see anyone, on any pretext whatsoever, and don’t leave the house, Miss Lawton. I will instruct Wilkes on my way out, that you are to be at home to no one. I must be getting back to my office now. If I am not mistaken, I shall receive a visit without unnecessary delay from my old friend Timothy Carlis, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Blaine’s prediction proved to have been well founded. Scarcely an hour passed, and he was deep in the study of some of his earlier notes on the case, when all at once a hubbub arose in his outer office. Usually quiet and well-ordered, its customary stillness was broken by a confused, expostulatory murmur of voices, above which rose a strident, angry bellow, like that of a maddened wild beast. Then a chair was violently overturned; the sudden sharp sound of a scuffle came to the detective’s listening ears; and the door was dashed open with a jar which made the massive inkstand upon the desk quiver. Timothy Carlis stood upon the threshold––Timothy Carlis, his face empurpled, the great veins upon his low-slanting forehead standing out like whipcords, his huge, spatulate hands clenched, his narrow, slit eyes gleaming murderously. <div>284</div> “So you’re here, after all!” he roared. “Those d––d fools out there tried to give me the wrong steer, but I was wise to ’em. You buffaloed Rockamore, and that senile old idiot, Mallowe, but you can’t bluff me! I came here to see you, and I usually get what I go after!” “Having seen me, Carlis, will you kindly state your business and go? This promises to be one of my busiest days. What can I do for you?” Blaine leaned back in his chair, with a bland smile of pleased expectancy. “It ain’t what you can do; it’s what you’re goin’ to do, and no mistake about it!” the other glowered. “You’re goin’ to keep your mouth shut as tight as a trap, and your hands off, from now on! Oh, you know what I mean, right enough. Don’t try to work the surprised gag on me!” He added the latter with a coarse sneer which further distorted his inflamed visage. Blaine, with an expression of sharp inquiry, had whirled around in his swivel chair to face his excited visitor, and as he did so, his hand, with seeming inadvertence, had for an instant come in contact with the under ledge of his desk-top. “I’m afraid, much as I desire not to prolong this unexpected interview, that I must ask you to explain just what it is that I must keep my hands off of, as you say. We will go into the wherefore of it later.” Carlis glanced back of him into the empty hallway, then closed the door and came forward menacingly. “What’s the good of beating about the bush?” he demanded, in a fierce undertone. “You know d––n’ well what I mean: you’re butting in on the Lawton affair. You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, and you’d better wise yourself up to that, here and now!” “Just what is the Lawton affair?” <div>285</div> “Oh, stow that bluff! You know too much already, and if I followed my hunch, I’d scrag you now, to play safe. Dead men don’t blab, as a rule––though one may have, last night. I came here to be generous, to give you a last chance. I’ve fought tooth and nail, myself, for my place at the top, and I like a game scrapper, even if he is on the wrong side. You’ve tried to get me for years, but as I knew you couldn’t, I didn’t bother with you, any more than I would with a trained flea, and I bear no malice. D––d if I don’t like you, Blaine!” “Thank you!” The detective bowed in ironic acknowledgment of the compliment. “Your friendship would be considered a valuable asset by many, I have no doubt, but––” “Look here!” The great political boss had shed his bulldozing manner, and a shade of unmistakable earnestness, not unmixed with anxiety, had crept into his tones. “I’m talking as man to man, and I know I can trust your word of honor, even if you pretend you won’t take mine. Is anyone listening? Have you got any of your infernal operatives spying about?” Blaine leaned forward and replied with deep seriousness. “I give you my word, Carlis, that no human ear is overhearing our conversation.” Then he smiled, and added, with a touch of mockery: “But what difference can that make? I thought you came here to issue instructions. At least, you so announced yourself on your arrival!” “Because I’m going to make a proposition to you––on my own.” Even Carlis’ coarse face flushed darkly at the base self-revelation. “Pennington Lawton died of heart-disease.” <div>286</div> He paused, and after waiting a full minute, Blaine remarked, quietly, but with marked significance: “Of course. That is self-evident, isn’t it?” “Well, then––” Carlis stepped back with a satisfied grunt. “He didn’t have a soul on earth dependent on him but his daughter. His great fortune is swept away, and that daughter left penniless. But ain’t there lots of girls in this world worse off than she? Ain’t she got good friends that’s lookin’ out for her, and seein’ that she don’t want for a thing? Ain’t she goin’ to marry a young fellow that loves the ground she walks on––a rich young fellow, that’ll give her everything, all her life? What more could she want? She’s all right. But the big money––the money Lawton made by grinding down the masses––wouldn’t you like a slice of it yourself, Blaine? A nice, fat, juicy slice?” “How?” An interested pucker appeared suddenly between the detective’s expressive brows, and Carlis laughed. “Oh, we’re all in it––you may as well be! You’re on the inside, as it is! The play got too high for Rockamore, and he cashed in; you’ve bluffed old Mallowe till he’s looking up sailing dates for Algiers, but I knew you’d be sensible, when it came to the scratch, and divide the pot, rather than blow your whistle and have the game pulled!” “But it was old Mallowe”––Blaine’s tone was puzzled––“who succeeded in transferring all that worthless land he’d acquired to Lawton, when Lawton wouldn’t come in and help him on that Street-Railways grab, which would have made him practically sole owner of all the suburban real estate around Illington, wasn’t it?” “Sure it was!” laughed Carlis, ponderously. “But who made it possible for Mallowe to palm off those miles 287 of vacant lots––as improved city property, of course––on Lawton, without his knowledge, and even have them recorded in his name, but me? What am I boss for, if I don’t own a little man like the Recorder of Deeds?” “I see!” Blaine tapped his finger-tips together and smiled slowly, in meditative appreciation. “And it was your man, also, Paddington, who found means to provide the mortgage, letter of appeal for a loan, note for the loan itself, and so forth. As for Rockamore––” “Oh, he fixed up the dividend end, watered the stock and kept the whole thing going by phony financing while there was a chance of our hoodwinking Lawton into going into it voluntarily. He was one grand little promoter, Rockamore was; pity he got cold feet, and promoted himself into another sphere!” “All things considered, it may not be such a pity, after all!” Blaine rose suddenly, whirling his chair about until it stood before him, and he faced his amazed visitor from across it. “Now, Carlis, suppose you promote yourself from my office!” “Wh-what!” It was a mere toneless wheeze, but breathing deep of brute strength. “I told you when you first came in that this promised to be one of my busiest days. You’re taking up my time. To be sure, you’ve cleared up a few minor points for me, and testified to them, but you haven’t really told me anything I didn’t know. The game is up! Now––get out!” He braced himself, as he spoke, to meet the mountain of flesh which hurled itself upon him in a blind rush of Berserk rage––braced himself, met and countered it. Never had that spacious office––the scene of so many heartrending appeals, dramatic climaxes, impassioned 288 confessions and violent altercations––witnessed so terrific a struggle, brief as it was. “I’ll kill you!” roared the maddened brute. “You’ll never leave your office, alive, to repeat what I’ve told! I’ll kill you, with my bare hands, first, d––n you!” But even as he spoke, his voice ended in a surprised scream of agony, which told of strained sinews and ripped tendons, and he fell in a twisted, crumpled heap of quivering, inert flesh at the detective’s feet, the victim of a scientific hold and throw which had not been included in his pugilistic education. Instantly Blaine’s hand found an electric bell in the wall, and almost simultaneously the door opened and three powerful figures sprang upon the huge, recumbent form and bound him fast. “Take him away,” ordered the detective. “I’ll have the warrant ready for him.” “Warrant for what?” spluttered Carlis, through bruised and bleeding lips. “I didn’t do anything to you! You attacked me because I wouldn’t swear to a false charge. I got a legal right to try to defend myself!” “You’ve convicted yourself, out of your own mouth,” retorted Blaine. The other looked into his eyes and quailed, but blustered to the end. “Nobody heard, but you, and my word goes, in this town! What d’you mean––convicted myself?” For answer Blaine again touched that little spring in the protruding under-ledge of his desk, and out upon the trenchant stillness, broken only by the rapid, stertorous breathing of the manacled man, burst the strident tones of that same man’s voice, just as they had sounded a few minutes before: <div>289</div> “‘But the big money––the money Lawton made by grinding down the masses––wouldn’t you like a slice of it yourself, Blaine––a nice, fat, juicy slice.... Oh, we’re all in it, you may as well be!... The play got too high for Rockamore, and he cashed in; you’ve bluffed old Mallowe till he’s looking up sailing dates for Algiers, but I knew you’d be sensible, when it came to the scratch, and divide the pot, rather than blow your whistle and have the game pulled.... Who made it possible for Mallowe to palm off those miles of vacant lots––as improved city property, of course––on Lawton without his knowledge, and even have them recorded in his name, but me? What am I boss for, if I don’t own a little man like the Recorder of Deeds?’” “What is it?” gasped the wretched Carlis, in a fearful whisper, when the voice had ceased. “What is that––infernal thing?” “A detectaphone,” returned Blaine laconically. “You’ve heard of them, haven’t you, Carlis? When you asked me if we were alone, if any of my operatives were spying about, I told you that no human ear overheard our conversation. But this little concealed instrument––this unseen listener––recorded and bore witness to your confession; and this is a Recorder you do not own, and cannot buy!” <hr class='major' /> <div style='margin: auto; text-align: center; padding-top: 2em; padding-bottom: 1em'> 290 <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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