The Borough Treasurer | Page 7

really can silence him. I've heard of cases where a man's paid blackmail for years and years, and been no better for it in the end."
"Well--he's coming here tomorrow afternoon some time," said Cotherstone. "We'd better see him--together. After all, a hundred a year--a couple of hundred a year--'ud be better than--exposure."
Mallalieu drank off his whisky and pushed the glass aside.
"I'll consider it," he remarked. "What's certain sure is that he'll have to be quietened. I must go--I've an appointment. Are you coming out?"
"Not yet," replied Cotherstone. "I've all these papers to go through. Well, think it well over. He's a man to be feared."
Mallalieu made no answer. He, like Kitely, went off without a word of farewell, and Cotherstone was once more left alone.
CHAPTER III
MURDER
When Mallalieu had gone, Cotherstone gathered up the papers which his clerk had brought in, and sitting down at his desk tried to give his attention to them. The effort was not altogether a success. He had hoped that the sharing of the bad news with his partner would bring some relief to him, but his anxieties were still there. He was always seeing that queer, sinister look in Kitely's knowing eyes: it suggested that as long as Kitely lived there would be no safety. Even if Kitely kept his word, kept any compact made with him, he would always have the two partners under his thumb. And for thirty years Cotherstone had been under no man's thumb, and the fear of having a master was hateful to him. He heartily wished that Kitely was dead--dead and buried, and his secret with him; he wished that it had been anywise possible to have crushed the life out of him where he sat in that easy chair as soon as he had shown himself the reptile that he was. A man might kill any poisonous insect, any noxious reptile at pleasure--why not a human blood-sucker like that?
He sat there a long time, striving to give his attention to his papers, and making a poor show of it. The figures danced about before him; he could make neither head nor tail of the technicalities in the specifications and estimates; every now and then fits of abstraction came over him, and he sat drumming the tips of his fingers on his blotting-pad, staring vacantly at the shadows in the far depths of the room, and always thinking--thinking of the terrible danger of revelation. And always, as an under-current, he was saying that for himself he cared naught--Kitely could do what he liked, or would have done what he liked, had there only been himself to think for. But--Lettie! All his life was now centred in her, and in her happiness, and Lettie's happiness, he knew, was centred in the man she was going to marry. And Cotherstone, though he believed that he knew men pretty well, was not sure that he knew Windle Bent sufficiently to feel sure that he would endure a stiff test. Bent was ambitious--he was resolved on a career. Was he the sort of man to stand the knowledge which Kitely might give him? For there was always the risk that whatever he and Mallalieu might do, Kitely, while there was breath in him, might split.
A sudden ringing at the bell of the telephone in the outer office made Cotherstone jump in his chair as if the arresting hand of justice had suddenly been laid on him. In spite of himself he rose trembling, and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead as he walked across the room.
"Nerves!" he muttered to himself. "I must be in a queer way to be taken like that. It won't do!--especially at this turn. What is it?" he demanded, going to the telephone. "Who is that?"
His daughter's voice, surprised and admonitory, came to him along the wire.
"Is that you, father?" she exclaimed. "What are you doing? Don't you remember you asked Windle, and his friend Mr. Brereton, to supper at eight o'clock. It's a quarter to eight now. Do come home!"
Cotherstone let out an exclamation which signified annoyance. The event of the late afternoon had completely driven it out of his recollection that Windle Bent had an old school-friend, a young barrister from London, staying with him, and that both had been asked to supper that evening at Cotherstone's house. But Cotherstone's annoyance was not because of his own forgetfulness, but because his present abstraction made him dislike the notion of company.
"I'd forgotten--for the moment," he called. "I've been very busy. All right, Lettie--I'm coming on at once. Shan't be long."
But when he had left the telephone he made no haste. He lingered by his desk; he was slow in turning out the gas; slow in quitting and locking up his office; he went slowly away through