“It is there the secret is hidden,” he said to himself, “and whatever it is, I must have it. But how—how? I can’t knock the man down and rob him in his own house.” But Oakley himself proceeded to give him his first cue.
“You—you—perhaps have a message from my brother—my brother who is in Paris. I have not heard from him for some time.”
Skaggs’s mind worked quickly. He remembered the Colonel’s story. Evidently the brother had something to do with the secret. “Now or never,” he thought. So he said boldly, “Yes, I have a message from your brother.”
The man sprung up, clutching again at his breast. “You have? you have? Give it to me. After four years he sends me a message! Give it to me!”
The reporter looked steadily at the man. He knew that he was in his power, that his very eagerness would prove traitor to his discretion.
“Your brother bade me to say to you that you have a terrible secret, that you bear it in your breast—there—there. I am his messenger. He bids you to give it to me.”
Oakley had shrunken back as if he had been struck.
“No, no!” he gasped, “no, no! I have no secret.”
The reporter moved nearer him. The old man shrunk against the wall, his lips working convulsively and his hand tearing at his breast as Skaggs drew nearer. He attempted to shriek, but his voice was husky and broke off in a gasping whisper.
“Give it to me, as your brother commands.”
“No, no, no! It is not his secret; it is mine. I must carry it here always, do you hear? I must carry it till I die. Go away! Go away!”
Skaggs seized him. Oakley struggled weakly, but he had no strength. The reporter’s hand sought the secret pocket. He felt a paper beneath his fingers. Oakley gasped hoarsely as he drew it forth. Then raising his voice gave one agonised cry, and sank to the floor frothing at the mouth. At the cry rapid footsteps were heard in the hallway, and Mrs. Oakley threw open the door.
“What is the matter?” she cried.
“My message has somewhat upset your husband,” was the cool answer.
“But his breast is open. Your hand has been in his bosom. You have taken something from him. Give it to me, or I shall call for help.”
Skaggs had not reckoned on this, but his wits came to the rescue.
“You dare not call for help,” he said, “or the world will know!”
She wrung her hands helplessly, crying, “Oh, give it to me, give it to me. We’ve never done you any harm.”
“But you’ve harmed someone else; that is enough.”
He moved towards the door, but she sprang in front of him with the fierceness of a tigress protecting her young. She attacked him with teeth and nails. She was pallid with fury, and it was all he could do to protect himself and yet not injure her. Finally, when her anger had taken her strength, he succeeded in getting out. He flew down the hallway and out of the front door, the woman’s screams following him. He did not pause to read the precious letter until he was safe in his room at the Continental Hotel. Then he sprang to his feet, crying, “Thank God! thank God! I was right, and the Universe shall have a sensation. The brother is the thief, and Berry Hamilton is an innocent man. Hurrah! Now, who is it that has come on a wild goose chase? Who is it that ought to handle his idea carefully? Heigh-ho, Saunders my man, the drinks’ll be on you, and old Skaggsy will have done some good in the world.”
XVII
A Yellow Journal
Mr. Skaggs had no qualms of conscience about the manner in which he had come by the damaging evidence against Maurice Oakley. It was enough for him that he had it. A corporation, he argued, had no soul, and therefore no conscience. How much less, then, should so small a part of a great corporation as himself be expected to have them?
He had his story. It was vivid, interesting, dramatic. It meant the favour of his editor, a big thing for the Universe, and a fatter lining for his own pocket. He sat down to put his discovery on paper before he attempted anything else, although the impulse to celebrate was very strong within him.
He told his story well, with an eye to every one of its salient points. He sent an alleged picture of Berry Hamilton as he had appeared at the time of his arrest. He sent a picture of the Oakley home and of the cottage where the servant and his family had been so happy. There was a strong pen-picture of the man, Oakley, grown haggard and morose from carrying his guilty secret, of his confusion when confronted with the supposed knowledge of it. The old Southern city was described, and the opinions of its residents in regard to the case given. It was there—clear, interesting, and strong. One could see it all as if every phase of it were being enacted before one’s eyes. Skaggs surpassed himself.
When the editor first got hold of it he said “Huh!” over the opening lines—a few short sentences that instantly pricked the attention awake. He read on with increasing interest. “This is good stuff,” he said at the last page. “Here’s a chance for the Universe to look into the methods of Southern court proceedings. Here’s a chance for a spread.”
The Universe had always claimed to be the friend of all poor and oppressed humanity, and every once in a while it did something to substantiate its claim, whereupon it stood off and said to the public, “Look you what we have done, and behold how great we are, the
