“Been down to the wedding?” asked the old man slyly. “Nice girl, eh? Done well for herself? They tell me he’s a Canadian millionaire. Ain’t that Peter’s luck! That fellow would fall off rock and drop in feathers, he’s that lucky.”
Johnny made no answer. When the train stopped and he found himself opposite a first-class carriage, he opened the door and Emanuel hopped in.
“If you’re short of money—” began Legge.
“I’m not,” said the other curtly. “I’m short of nothing except bad company. Now listen, Emanuel,”—the train was puffing slowly from the station when he spoke again—“I’m going to give you a chance.”
The wide-eyed astonishment of Emanuel Legge was very convincing, but Johnny was not open to conviction at the moment.
“I don’t get you, Johnny,” he said. “What’s all this talk about giving me a chance? Have you been drinking?”
Johnny had seated himself opposite the man, and now he leant forward and placed his hand upon the other’s knee.
“Emanuel,” he said gently, “call off that boy, and there’ll be no squeak. Take that wounded fawn look from your face, because I haven’t any time for fooling. You call off Jeff and send the girl back home tonight, or I squeak. Do you understand that?”
“I understand your words, Johnny Gray, but what they mean is a mystery to me.” Emanuel Legge shook his head. “What boy are you talking about? I’ve only got one boy, and he’s at college—”
“You’re a paltry old liar. I’m talking about Jeff Legge, who married Peter’s daughter today. I’ve tumbled to your scheme, Emanuel. You’re getting even with Peter. Well, get even with him, but try some other way.”
“She’s married him of her own free will,” began the man. “There’s no law against that, is there, Johnny? Fell in love with him right on the spot! That’s what I like to see, Johnny—young people in love.”
If he hoped to rattle his companion he was disappointed.
“Now he can unmarry of his own free will,” said Johnny calmly. “Listen to me, Emanuel Legge. When you arrive in London, you’ll go straight away to the Charlton Hotel and talk very plainly to your son. He, being a sensible man, will carry out your instructions—”
“Your instructions,” corrected Emanuel, his mouth twisted in a permanent smile. “And what happens if I don’t, Johnny?”
“I squeak,” said Johnny, and the smile broadened.
“They are married, old man. You can’t divorce ’em. You can turn a brown horse into a black ’un, but you can’t turn Mrs. Jeffrey Legge into Miss Marney Kane, clever as you are.”
Johnny leant forward.
“I can turn Mr. Jeffrey Legge into Dartmoor Jail,” he said unpleasantly, “and that’s what I propose to do.”
“On what charge?” Emanuel raised his eyebrows. “Give us a little rehearsal of this squeal of yours, Gray.”
“He’s the Big Printer,” said Johnny, and the smile slowly dissolved. “The Government has spent thousands to catch him; they’ve employed the best secret service men in the world to pull him down, and I can give them just the information they want. I know where his stuff is planted. I know where it is printed; I know at least four of his agents. You think Jeff’s secret is his own and yours, but you’re mistaken, Emanuel. Craig knows he’s the Big Printer; he told me so at lunch. All he wants is evidence, and the evidence I can give him. Old Reeder knows—you think he’s a fool, but he knows. I could give him a squeak that would make him the cleverest lad in the world.”
Emanuel Legge licked his dry lips.
“Going in for the con business, Johnny?” he asked banteringly. There was no amusement in his voice. “What a confidence man you’d make! You look like a gentleman, and talk like one. Why, they’d fall for you and never think twice! But that confidence stuff doesn’t mean anything to me, Johnny. I’m too old and too wide to be bluffed—”
“There’s no bluff here,” interrupted Johnny. “I have got your boy like that!” He held out his hand and slowly clenched it.
For fully five minutes Emanuel Legge sat huddled in a corner of the compartment, staring out upon the flying scenery.
“You’ve got him like that, have you, Johnny boy?” he said gently. “Well, there’s no use deceiving you, I can see. Slush is funny stuff—they call it ‘phoney’ in America. Did you know that? I guess you would, because you’re well educated. But it’s good slush, Johnny. Look at this. He’s a note. Is it good or bad?”
His fingers had gone into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a thin pad of paper an inch square. Fold by fold he opened it out and showed a five-pound note. He caressed the paper with finger and thumb. The eyes behind the powerful glasses gleamed; the thin-lined face softened with pride.
“Is it good or bad, Johnny?”
Though the day was bright and hot, and not a cloud was in the sky, the four electric lamps in the carriage lit up suddenly. In the powerful light of day they seemed pale ghosts of flame, queerly dim. As the sunshine fell upon them their shadows were cast upon the white cornice of the carriage.
“There’s a tunnel coming,” said Emanuel. “It will give you a chance of seeing them at their best—feel ’em, Johnny! The real paper; bankers have fallen for ’em …”
With a roar the train plunged into the blackness of the tunnel. Emanuel stood with his back to the carriage door, the note held taut between his hands.
“There’s only one flaw—the watermark. I’m giving away secrets, eh? Look!”
He stretched his arms up until he held the note against one of the bracket lamps. To see, John Gray had to come behind him and peer over his shoulder. The thunder of the train in the narrow tunnel was almost deafening.
“Look at the F,” shouted Emanuel. “See … that F in ‘Five’—it’s printed too shallow …”
As Johnny bent forward the old man thrust at him with
