Out of the Ashes | Page 3

of originality, "because it would be a transaction by no means unusual to you, and would attract no attention."
He looked at her grimly. "You think so?" Let me hear how you intend to carry out the rest of the transaction--the delivery of the autographs in question."
"To begin with, I will place in your hands the plates--all the photographs."
"How can I be sure?" he demanded.
"You can't, of course; but you will have to accept my assurance that I am honest. I promise to fulfill my part of the bargain--literally to the letter. You may verify and find that the series is complete. Your attorneys, to whom you wrote these, will doubtless tell you that they personally destroyed these documents, but they doubtless have a record of the dates of letters received at this time. You can compare; they are all there; I hold out nothing."
"But if they say they have destroyed the letters--what in the name of--"
"Oh, no; they destroyed your communications perhaps, after 'contents noted.' But they never had your letters, for the simple reason that they never received them. Very excellent copies they were--most excellent."
Mr. Marcus Gard was experiencing more sensations during his chat with Mrs. Marteen than had fallen to his lot for many a long day. His tremendous power had long made his position so secure that he had met extraordinary situations with the calm of one who controls them. He had startled and held others spellbound by his own infinite foresight, resource and energy. The situation was reversed. He gazed fascinated in the fine blue eyes of another and more ruthless general.
"My dear madam, do you mean to infer that this coup of yours was planned and executed a year ago, when I, even I," and he thumped his deep chest, "had no idea what these letters might come to mean? Do you mean to tell me that?"
"Yes"--and she smiled at his evident reluctance to believe--"yes, exactly. You see, I saw what was coming--I knew the trend. I have friends at court--the Supreme Court, it happens--and I was certain that the 'little cloud no larger than a man's hand' might very well prove to contain the whirlwind; so--well, there was just a flip of accident that makes the present situation possible. But the rest was designed, I regret to admit--cold-blooded design on my part."
"With this end in view?" He tapped the photographs strewn upon his desk.
"With this end in view," she confessed.
He was silent a moment, lost in thought; then he turned upon her suddenly.
"Mind, I haven't acceded to your demands," he shouted.
"Is the interview at an end?" she asked, rising and adjusting the furs about her throat. "If so, I must tell you the papers are in the hands of persons who would be very much interested in their contents. If they don't see me--hearing from me won't do, you understand, for a situation is conceivable, of course, when I might be coerced into sending a message or telephoning one--if they don't see me personally, the packet will be opened--and eventually, after the Texas Purchase is adjusted, they will find their way into the possession of the District Attorney. I have taken every possible precaution."
"I don't doubt that in the least, madam--confound it, I don't! Now when will you put the series, lock, stock and barrel, into my hands?"
"When you've done that little turn for me in the market, Mr. Gard. You may trust me."
"On the word--of a d��butante?" he demanded, with a snap of his square jaws.
For the first time she flushed, the color mantling to her temples; she was a very handsome woman.
"On the word of a d��butante," she answered, and her voice was steady.
"Well, then"--he slapped the table with his open hand--"if you'll send me, to the office, what you want to invest, I'll give orders that I will personally direct that account."
"Thank you so much," she murmured, rising.
"Don't go!" he exclaimed, his request a command. "I want to talk with you. Don't you know you're the first person, man or woman, who has held me up--me, Marcus Gard! I don't see how you had the nerve. I don't see how you had the idea." He changed his bullying tone suddenly. "I wish--I wish you'd talk to me. I'm as curious as any woman."
Mrs. Martin Marteen moved toward the door.
"I'm selling you your autographs--not my autobiography. I'm so glad to have seen you. Good afternoon, Mr. Gard."
She was gone, and the Great Man had not the presence of mind to escort his visitor to the door or ring for attendance. He remained standing, staring after her. His gaze shifted to the table, where, either by accident or design, the photographs remained, scattered. He chuckled grimly. Accident! Nothing was accidental with that Machiavelli in petticoats. She knew he would read those accursed lines,