Gibbs George
The Vagrant Duke
CHAPTER XVI
IDENTIFICATION
The sudden and unexpected arrival of Miss Peggy McGuire upon the scene had been annoying. That young person was, as Peter knew, a soulless little snob and materialist with a mind which would not be slow to put the worst possible construction upon the situation. Of course as matters stood at the close of that extraordinary evening of self-revelations, it did not matter a great deal what Peggy McGuire thought or said or did, for nothing could hurt Beth now. The Grand Duke Peter Nicholaevitch had capitulated and Peter Nichols gloried in his victory over inherited tradition. He had no regrets and he had made his choice, for Beth was what he wanted. She completed him. She was effulgent, – even in homespun. A little tinsel more or less could make no difference in Beth. Those of his own class who would not accept her might go hang for all he cared.
Still Peter had rather that almost any one but Peggy should have come upon the scene, and Beth's frankness had given her a handle for a scandal, if she chose to make one. Beth cared nothing, he knew, for her soul was greater than his, but Peter's anger still smoldered at the words that had been used to Beth.
He did not fear complications with McGuire, nor did he court them, but he knew how this daughter had been brought up, spoiled and pampered to the very limits of McGuire's indulgence and fortune, and he couldn't help holding her up in comparison with Beth, much to Peggy's detriment. For Beth was a lady to her finger tips, born to a natural gentility that put to confusion the mannerisms of the "smart" finishing school which had not succeeded in concealing the strain of a plebeian origin, and Beth's dropped g's and her quaint inversions and locutions were infinitely more pleasing to Peter than Miss Peggy's slang and self-assurance, which reflected the modernity of the fashionable hotel tea-room.
Fortunately, Jonathan K. McGuire, who had returned from the seashore the night before, was not disposed to take his daughter's animadversions too seriously and when Peter announced his engagement to the niece of his housekeeper he made no comment further than to offer his congratulations. He did not even know her name and when McGuire was told that it was Beth Cameron, Peter did not miss his slight start of inquiry. But of course, having only owned his acres of woodland for half a dozen years, he knew little as to the origins of the inhabitants of Black Rock and as Peter said nothing at that moment he asked no questions and only listened to the forester's account of the progress of the work and of the difficulties experienced in attempting to complete the timber-contract. There was no way of improving the labor situation and a visit to the camp proved to him that Peter had done all that could be expected with the poor material at hand. On the way back they stopped at the Cabin and Peter showed him the letter from Hawk Kennedy. And there for a while they sat discussing plans to outwit the enemy and draw his sting.
It was going to be no easy task and could only be accomplished by Peter's apparent compliance with Kennedy's wishes in throwing in his lot with Hawk and simulating an enmity for his employer. McGuire nodded his head and listened soberly. The rest at the seashore had done him good and he was disposed to meet the situation with courage, reflecting Peter's own attitude of confidence and optimism, admitting that his confession to Peter had lifted a weight from his shoulders and given him the spirit to meet the issue, whatever it might be.
"You see," he said at last, "if the worst comes I'm in a pretty bad hole. But it was the shock of meeting Hawk after all these years that took the courage out of me at first. I wasn't quite right in my head for a while. I'd have killed him gladly and gotten away with it perhaps – but I'm glad now that things turned out the way they did. I've got no blood on my hands – that's one thing – whatever I signed. I've been thinking a good deal since I've been away. If I signed that fake confession Hawk Kennedy signed it too. He won't dare to produce it except as a last resort in desperation, to drag me down with him if he fails. We can string him along for a while before he does that and if he falls for your game we may be able to get the paper away from him. You've thought of something, Nichols?" he asked.
"Yes, of several things," said Peter slowly. "I'm going to try diplomacy first. If that doesn't work, then something else more drastic."
McGuire rose at last and took up his hat.
"I don't know how to thank you for what you've done, Nichols," he said awkwardly. "Of course if – if money will repay you for this sort of service, you can count on my doing what you think is right."
Peter rose and walked to the window, looking out.
"I was coming to that, Mr. McGuire," he said gravely.
McGuire paused and laid his hat down again.
"Before you went away," Peter went on, turning slowly toward his employer, "you told me that you had never made any effort to discover the whereabouts of any of the relatives of Ben Cameron. But I inferred from what you said that if you did find them, you'd be willing to do your duty. That's true, isn't it?"
McGuire examined him soberly but agreed.
"Yes, that's true. But why do you bring this question up now?"
"I'll explain in a moment. Mr. McGuire, you are said to be a very rich man, how rich I don't know, but I think you'll be willing to admit to me, knowing what I do of your history, that without the 'Tarantula' mine and the large sum it brought you you would never have succeeded in getting to your present position in the world of finance."
"I'll admit that. But I don't see – "
"You will in a minute, sir – "
"Go on."
"If I have been correctly informed, you sold out your copper holdings in Madre Gulch for something like half a million dollars – " Peter paused for McGuire's comment. He made none. But he had sunk into his chair again and was listening intently.
"The interest on half a million dollars, even at six per cent, if compounded, would in fifteen years amount with the principal to a considerable sum."
"Ah, I see what you're getting at – "
"You will admit that what I say is true?"
"Yes – "
"You'll admit also, if you're reasonable, that the money which founded your great fortune was as a matter of fact not yours but Ben Cameron's – ?"
"But why speak of him now?" muttered the old man.
"Do you admit this?"
McGuire frowned and then growled, "How can I help admitting it, since you know the facts? But I don't see – "
"Well then, admitting that the 'Tarantula' mine was Ben Cameron's and not yours or Hawk Kennedy's, it seems clear that if any of Ben Cameron's heirs should turn up unexpectedly, they might claim at least a share of what should have been their own."
McGuire had started forward in his chair, his gaze on Peter's face, as the truth was suddenly borne in upon him.
"You mean, Nichols, that – ." He paused and gasped as Peter nodded.
"I mean that Ben Cameron's only child, a daughter, lives here at Black Rock – the niece of your housekeeper – Mrs. Bergen – "
"Miss Cameron – My God!" McGuire fell back in his chair, staring at Peter, incapable of further speech.
"Beth Cameron," said Peter gently, "the lady who has done me the honor of promising to become my wife – "
"But how do you know?" gasped McGuire. "There must be some mistake. Are you sure you – " He broke off and then a sly smile curled at the corners of his lips. "You know, Nichols, Cameron is not an unusual name. It's quite possible that you're – er – mistaken."
"No. I'm quite sure there's no mistake. I think the facts can be proved – that is, of course, if you're willing to help to establish this claim and to admit it when established. Otherwise I intend to establish it without your assistance – as an act of justice and of – er – retribution."
McGuire watched his superintendent's face for a while before replying. And then, briefly, "What are the facts on which you base this extraordinary statement?" he asked.
"I'll present those facts when the time comes, Mr. McGuire," said Peter at a venture. "I don't think it will be a difficult matter to identify the murdered man. He wrote home once or twice. He can be traced successfully. But what I would like to know first is what your disposition toward his daughter will be when the proper proofs are presented."
"If they're presented," said McGuire.
"Will you answer me?"
"It would seem time enough to answer then. I'll do the right thing."
"Meaning what?"
"Money enough to satisfy her."
"That won't do. She must have what is hers by right. Her price is one million dollars," said Peter quietly.
McGuire started up. "You're dreaming," he gasped.
"It's her money."
"But I developed that mine."
"It was her mine that you developed."
McGuire stopped by the window and turned.
"And if I refuse – ?"
"I don't think you will – "
The two men stared at each other, but Peter had the whip hand – or McGuire thought he had, which was quite sufficient.
"Will you help me to perform this act of justice?" Peter went on calmly. "It's the only thing to do, Mr. McGuire. Can't you see that?"
McGuire paced the floor heavily a few times before replying. And then,
"I've got to think this thing over, Nichols. It's all so very sudden – a million dollars. My God! man, you talk of a million as if it grew on the trees." He stopped abruptly before the fireplace and turned to Peter. "And where does Hawk Kennedy come in on this?"
"Beth Cameron's claim comes before his – or yours," said Peter quietly. "Whatever happens to either of you – it's not her fault."
Peter hadn't intended a threat. He was simply stating the principal thought of his mind. But it broke McGuire's front. He leaned upon the armchair and then fell heavily into it, his head buried in his hands.
"I'll do – whatever you say," he groaned at last, "but you've got to get me out of this, Nichols. I've got to have that paper."
Peter poured out a drink of the whisky and silently handed it to his employer.
"Come, Mr. McGuire," he said cheerfully, "we'll do what we can. There'll be a way to outwit Hawk Kennedy."
"I hope to God there is," muttered McGuire helplessly.
"I'll make a bargain with you."
"What?" asked McGuire helplessly.
"If I get the confession from Kennedy, you give Beth Cameron the money I ask for."
"No publicity?"
"None. I give you my word on it."
"Well," muttered the old man, "I guess it's coming to her. I'll see." He paused helplessly. "A million dollars! That's a big sum to get together. A big price – but not too big to clear this load off my conscience."
"Good. I'm glad you see it in this way."
The old man turned shrewdly. "But I've got to have the proofs – "
"Very well. If you're honest in your intentions you'll help me confirm the evidence."
"Yes," said the other slowly. "I'll do what I can."
"Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling me what Ben Cameron looked like – "
"I've told you as near as I can remember," muttered McGuire.
"Had the murdered man, for instance, lost the little finger of his left hand?" asked Peter, coolly concealing the anxiety which lay behind his question.
But he had his reward, for McGuire shot a quick glance at him, his heavy jowl sagging. And as he didn't reply, Peter urged him triumphantly.
"You promised to help. Will you answer me truthfully? It will save asking a lot of questions."
At last McGuire threw up his hands.
"Yes," he muttered, "that was Ben Cameron. One of his little fingers was missing all right enough."
"Thanks," said Peter, with an air of closing the interview. "If you want this proof that the murdered man was Beth's father, ask Mrs. Bergen."
There was a silence. Peter had won. McGuire gathered up his hat with the mien of a broken man and moved toward the door.
"All right, Nichols. I guess there's no doubt of it. I'll admit the proof's strong enough. It can be further verified, I suppose, but I'd rather no questions were asked. You do your part and I – I'll do mine."
"Very good, sir. You can count on me. If that fake agreement is still in existence, I'll get it for you. If it has been destroyed – "
"I'll have to have proof of that – "
"Won't you leave that in my hands?"
McGuire nodded, shook Peter's hand and wandered out up the path in the direction of Black Rock House.
From the first, Peter had had no doubt that the murdered man was Beth's father, but he had to admit under McGuire's questioning that there might still be a difficulty in tracing the vagrant from the meager history of his peregrinations that Mrs. Bergen had been able to provide. McGuire's attitude in regard to the absent little finger had been really admirable. Peter was thankful for that little finger, and for McGuire's honesty. There was no doubt in his mind now – if any had existed – who Ben Cameron's murderer was. The affair was simplified amazingly. With Beth's claim recognized, Peter could now enter heart and soul into the interesting business of beating Hawk Kennedy at his own game. He would win – he must win, for the pitiful millionaire and for Beth.
And so, jubilantly, he made his way to Black Rock village to fill a very agreeable engagement that he had, to take supper (cooked and served by her own hands) with Miss Beth Cameron. He found that Beth had tried to prevail upon Aunt Tillie to be present but that the arrival of the McGuire family at Black Rock House had definitely prevented the appearance of their chaperon. Peter's appetite, however, suffered little diminution upon that account and he learned that singing was not Beth's only accomplishment. The rolls, as light as feathers and steaming hot, were eloquent of her skill, the chicken was broiled to a turn, the creamed potatoes delicious, and the apple pie of puff-paste provoked memories of the Paris Ritz. Aunt Tillie's best tablecloth and family silver – old, by the looks of it – had been brought into requisition and a bunch of goldenrod and purple asters graced the centerpiece. And above it all presided Beth, her face aflame from the cookstove, gracious and more than lovable in her pride and self-consciousness.
When the supper was finished, Peter helped her to clear away the things and insisted on being allowed to help wash the dishes. But to this Beth demurred for they were of Aunt Tillie's blue colonial china set and not to be trusted to impious hands. But she let Peter sit in the kitchen and watch her (which was quite satisfactory) and even spared him a kiss or two at propitious intervals.
Then when all things had been set to rights they went into the little parlor and sat on the worn Victorian plush-covered sofa. There was much to talk about, matters of grave importance that concerned themselves alone, explanations to be made, hopes to be expressed, and Beth's affair with McGuire to be discussed in all its phases. Peter told her nothing of his rank or station in life, saving that revelation for a later moment. Was not the present all-sufficient? And hadn't Beth told him and didn't she tell him again now that she believed in him and that "no matter what" she loved him and was his, for ever after, Amen. She didn't care who he was, you see.
And when the important business of affirming those vows was concluded again and again, the scarcely less important business of Beth's future was talked over with a calmness which did much credit to Beth's control of the situation. Peter brought out Hawk Kennedy's letter and they read it together, and talked about it, Peter explaining his intention to acquiesce in Hawk's plan. Then Peter told of his conversation with McGuire and of the proof of Ben Cameron's identity which the old man had honestly admitted.
"It looks very much, Beth," said Peter at last, with a smile, "as though you were going to be a very wealthy young woman."
"Oh, Peter," she sighed (the elimination of formal appellations had been accomplished during the earlier stages of the repast), "Oh, Peter, I hope it isn't going to bring us unhappiness."
"Unhappiness! Why, Beth!"
"Oh, I don't know. It seems to me that people with a lot of money always look unhappy wantin' to want somethin'."
He laughed.
"The secret of successful wanting is only to want the things you can get."
"That's just the trouble. With a million dollars I'll get so much more than I want. And what then – ?"
"You'll have to start all over again."
"No," she said quietly. "I won't. If wantin' things she can't buy makes a girl hard, like Peggy McGuire, I think I'd rather be poor."
Peter grew grave again.
"Nothing could ever make you like Peggy McGuire," he said.
"I might be – if I ever get into the habit of thinkin' I was somethin' that I wasn't."
"You'll never be a snob, Beth, no matter how much money you have."
"I hope not," she said with a laugh. "My nose turns up enough already." And then, wistfully, "But I always did want a cerise veil."
"I've no doubt you'll get it, a cerise veil – mauve, green and blue ones too. I'll be having to keep an eye on you when you go to the city."
She eyed him gravely and then, "I don't like to hear you talk like that."
But he kept to his topic for the mere delight of hearing her replies.
"But then you might see somebody you liked better than me."
She smiled at him gently. "If I'd 'a' thought that I wouldn't 'a' picked you out in the first place."
"Then you did pick me out. When?"
"H-m. Wouldn't you like to know!"
"Yes. At the Cabin?"
"No – "
"At McGuire's – ?"
"No-o. Before that – "
"When – "
She blushed very prettily and laughed.
"Down Pickerel River road."
"Did you, Beth?"
"Yes. I liked your looks. You do smile like you meant it, Peter. I said to myself that anybody that could bow from the middle like you was good enough for me."
"Now you're making fun of me."
"Oh, no. I'm not. You see, dear, you've really lived up to that bow!"
"I hope," said Peter gently, "I hope I always will."
"I'm not worryin'. And I'm glad I knew you loved me before you knew about the money."
"You did know, then – "
"Yes. What bothered me was your findin' it so hard to tell me so."
Peter was more awkward and self-conscious at that moment than he could ever remember having been in his life. Her frankness shamed him – made it seem difficult for him ever to tell her the real reasons for his hesitation. What chance would the exercise of inherited tradition have in the judgment of this girl who dealt instinctively and intimately with the qualities of the mind and heart, and only with them?
"I – I was not good enough for you," he muttered.
She put her fingers over his lips. And when he kissed them – took them away and gave him her lips.
"I'll hear no more of that, Peter Nichols," she whispered. "You're good enough for me – "
Altogether, it may be said that the evening was a success at every angle from which Peter chose to view it. And he made his way back to the Cabin through the deep forest along the path that Beth had worn, the path to his heart past all the fictitious barriers that custom had built about him. The meddlesome world was not. Here was the novaya jezn that his people had craved and shouted for. He had found it. New life – happiness – with a mate … his woman – soon to be his wife – whether Beth Nichols or the Grand Duchess Elizabeth…? There was no title of nobility that could make Beth's heart more noble, no pride of lineage that could give her a higher place than that which she already held in his heart.
His blood surging, he ran along the log at the crossing and up the path to the Cabin, where a surprise awaited him. For he found the lamp lighted, and, seated complacently in Peter's easy chair, stockinged feet toward the blaze of a fresh log, a bottle at his elbow, was Hawk Kennedy.
CHAPTER XVII
PETER BECOMES A CONSPIRATOR
Peter entered and stood by the door, startled from his rhapsody by the appearance of the intruder, who had made himself quite at home, regardless of the fact that the final words of their last meeting had given no promise of a friendship which would make his air of easy familiarity acceptable to Peter, whose first impulse moved him to anger, fortunately controlled as he quickly remembered how much hung upon the assumption of an amicable relationship with McGuire's arch enemy. Peter hadn't replied to Hawk's letter which had indicated that some weeks might elapse before Black Rock received another of his visitations. The speculations in Peter's mind as to the change in his visitor's plans and the possible causes for them may have been marked in his face, for Hawk grinned at him amiably and rose and offered his hand with an air of assurance.
"Wondering why I dropped in on you so unexpected-like? Let's say that I got tired of staring at the lonely grandeur of Pike's Peak, mon gars, or that the lady who gave me the pleasure of her society skipped for Denver with a younger man, or that the high altitude played Billy-be-damned with my nerves, and you'll have excuse enough. But the fact is, Pete, I was a bit nervous at being so long away from the center of financial operations, and thought I'd better come right on and talk to you."
"I got your letter," said Peter calmly, "I hadn't answered it yet – "
"I thought it better to come for my answer."
"I've been thinking it over – "
"Good. It will be worth thinkin' over. You'll bless the day Jim Coast ran athwart your course."
"You seem to be taking a good deal for granted."
"I do. I always do. Until the present opportunity it was about the only thing I got a chance to take. You wouldn't of done me a good turn that night, if you hadn't been O.K. Will you have a drink of your own? It's good stuff – ten years in the wood, I see by the label, and I'm glad to get it, for whisky is scarcer than hen's teeth between this and the Rockies."
As Peter nodded he poured out the drinks and settled down in Peter's chair with the air of one very much at home.
"Well, Pete, what's yer answer to be?" he said at last. "You weren't any too polite when I left here. But I didn't think you'd turn me down altogether. And you're straight. I know that. I've been countin' on your sense of justice. How would you like to be treated the way I was treated by Mike McGuire?"
"I wouldn't like it."
"You just bet you wouldn't. You wouldn't stand for it, you wouldn't. I've got justice on my side and I've got the law – if I choose to use it – but I'd rather win this case as man to man – without its getting into the newspapers. That wouldn't matter much to a poor man like me, but it would make a heap of difference to a man who stands where McGuire does."
"That's true."
"Yes. And he knows it. He hasn't got a leg to stand on." Kennedy paused and looked Peter over coolly. Peter had been studying the situation critically, playing his game with some care, willing to placate his visitor and yet taking pains not to be too eager to gain his confidence. So he carefully lighted his cigarette while he debated his course of action.
"What makes you think that I'm in a different mood now from when you left here?"
"Haven't I told you? Because I believe that you know that right's right and wrong's wrong."
"But I told you that I didn't want to have anything to do with the case."
"True for you. But you will when I've finished talking to you."
"Will I?"
"You will if you're not a fool, which you ain't. I always said you had somethin' between your ears besides ivory. You don't like to stay poor any more than anybody else. You don't have to. A good half of McGuire's money is mine. If it hadn't been for me helpin' to smell that copper out he'd of been out there grub-stakin' yet an' that's a fact. But I'm not goin' to be too hard on him. I'm no hog. I'm goin' to let him down easy. What's a million more or less to him? It might pinch him a little here and there sellin' out securities he had a fancy for, but in a year or so he'd have it all back and more, the way he works. Oh, I know. I've found out a bit since I've been away. And he'll come across all right, when he hears what I've got to say to him."
"Why don't you go to him direct?" asked Peter.
"And have him barricadin' the house and shootin' promiscuous at me from the windows? Not on your life. I know what I'm about. This thing has got to be done quiet. There's no use stirring up a dirty scandal to hurt his reputation for honest dealin' in New York. Even as it is, the story has got around about the mystery of Black Rock. No use makin' talk. That's why I want you. You stand ace high with the old man. He'll listen to you and we'll work the game all right and proper."
"But suppose he won't listen to me."
"Then we'll put the screws on."
"What screws?"
Hawk Kennedy closed one eye and squinted the other at Peter quizzically.
"I'll tell you that all in good time. But first I've got to know how you stand in the matter."
Peter judicially examined the ash of his cigarette. "He ought to do the right thing," he said slowly.
"He will – never you fear. But can I count on you, Pete?"
"What do you want me to do?" asked Peter after a moment.
"Oh, now we're talkin'. But wait a minute. We won't go so fast. Are you with me sure enough – hope I may die – cross my heart?"
"If you'll make it worth my while," said Peter cautiously.
"A hundred thousand. How's that?"
"It sounds all right. But I can't see what I can do that you couldn't do yourself."
"Don't you? Well, you don't know all this story. There's some of it you haven't heard. Maybe it's that will convince you you're makin' no mistake – "
"Well – I'm listening."
A shrewd look came into Kennedy's face – a narrowing of the eyelids, a drawing of the muscles at the mouth, as he searched Peter's face with a sharp glance.
"If you play me false, Pete, I'll have your heart's blood," he said.
Peter only laughed at him.
"I'm not easily scared. Save the melodrama for McGuire. If you can do without me – go ahead. Play your hand alone. Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know."
The bluff worked, for Kennedy relaxed at once.
"Oh, you're a cool hand. I reckon you think I need you or I wouldn't be here. Well, that's so. I do need you. And I'm goin' to tell you the truth – even if it gives away my hand."
"Suit yourself," said Peter, indifferently.
He watched his old "bunkie" pour out another drink of the whisky, and a definite plan of action took shape in his mind. If he could only get Kennedy drunk enough… The whisky bottle was almost empty – so Peter got up, went to his cupboard and brought forth another one.
"Good old Pete!" said Hawk. "Seems like July the first didn't make much difference to you."
"A present from Mr. McGuire," Peter explained.
"Well, here's to his fat bank account. May it soon be ours." And he drank copiously. Peter filled his own glass but when the opportunity offered poured most of it into the slop-bowl just behind him.
"I'm goin' to tell you, Pete, about me and McGuire – about how we got that mine. It ain't a pretty story. I told you some of it but not the real part – nobody but Mike McGuire and I know that – and he wouldn't tell if it was the last thing he said on earth."
"Oh," said Peter, "something crooked, eh?"
Kennedy laid his bony fingers along Peter's arm while his voice sank to an impressive whisper.
"Crooked as Hell, Pete – crooked as Hell. You wouldn't think Mike McGuire was a murderer – would you?"
"A murderer – !"
Kennedy nodded. "We took that mine – stole it from the poor guy who had staked out his claim. Mike killed him – "
"You don't mean – ?"
"Yes, sir. Killed him – stuck him in the ribs with a knife when he wasn't lookin'. What do you think of that?"
"McGuire – a murderer – !"
"Sure. Nice sort of a boss you've got! And he could swing for it if I didn't hold my tongue."
"This is serious – "
"You bet it is – if he don't come across. Now I guess you know why he was so cut up when I showed up around here. I've got it on him all right."
"Can you prove it?"
Kennedy rubbed his chin for a moment.
"I could but I don't want to. You see – Pete – " He paused again and blinked pensively at his glass. "Well, you see – in a manner of speakin' – he's got it on me too."
And Peter listened while his villainous companion related the well known tale of the terrible compact between the two men in which both of them had agreed in writing to share the guilt of the crime, carefully omitting to state the compulsion as used upon McGuire. Hawk Kennedy lied. If Peter had ever needed any further proof of the honesty of his employer he read it in the shifting eye and uncertain verbiage of his guest, whose tongue now wagged loosely while he talked of the two papers, one of which was in McGuire's possession, the other in his own. Hawk was no pleasant companion for an evening's entertainment. From the interesting adventurer of the Bermudian, Jim Coast had been slowly changing under Peter's eyes into a personality more formidable and sinister. And the drink seemed to be bringing into importance potentialities for evil at which Peter had only guessed. That he meant to fight to the last ditch for the money was clear, and if the worst came would even confess, dragging McGuire down among the ruins of both their lives. In his drunken condition it would have been ridiculously easy for Peter to have overpowered him, but he was not sure to what end that would lead.
"You say there were two papers," said Peter. "Where are they?"
"McGuire's got his – here at Black Rock," muttered Hawk.
"How do you know that?" asked Peter with interest.
"Where would he keep it?" sneered Hawk. "In his business papers for 'zecutors to look over?"
"And where's yours?" asked Peter.
He hoped for some motion of Kennedy's fingers to betray its whereabouts, but the man only poured out another drink and leered at Peter unpleasantly.
"That'sh my business," he said with a sneer.
"Oh. Is it? I thought I was to have a hand in this."
Kennedy grinned.
"Y'are. Your job is t' get other paper from McGuire's safe. And then we'll have fortune in – hic – nutshell."
The man wasn't as drunk as he seemed. Peter shrugged.
"I see. I've got to turn burglar to join your little criminal society. Suppose I refuse?"
