“What’s the game?” demanded Morton sullenly.
CARPENTER took a chair and faced the multimillionaire. He smiled knowingly as he began to speak.
“We have been quite friendly since you arrived in Seaview City,” said Carpenter. “That was due to the fact that my name was mentioned to you by an acquaintance in New York. You were told to look me up when you came here.”
“What of it?”
“I have many acquaintances such as the one you chanced to meet in a business way. Such acquaintances are very convenient. They are men in my employ — paid in advance.”
“For what?”
“For steering such persons as you into my capable hands. I know your history, Morton. I can tell you many things about your private affairs.”
“What, for instance?”
“Well,” said Carpenter, as he flicked his cigarette into an ash tray, “I might mention the divorce suit which your wife had considered instituting against you. You and she have been separated for a long while, you know.”
“What about it? She will never start the divorce—”
“I hope not” — Carpenter’s tone was ironic — “on your account. The settlement would probably run into seven figures. More than a million dollars.”
“Let her try it!” sneered Morton. “She claims that she can name a correspondent. What evidence does she have?”
“Three days ago,” observed Carpenter, in a matter-of-fact tone, “you received a letter from a certain woman. You unwisely kept the letter. You also wrote a reply, which you mailed.”
Morton glowered, puzzled.
“I paid a thousand dollars for the writing of the original letter,” continued Carpenter. “I paid the same sum for the one which you wrote. I have both of the letters in my possession—”
“The one that I received? That’s a lie! I have it here—”
Carpenter laughed as Morton began to fumble in his pockets. He seemed to relish the look of confusion that came over the multimillionaire’s face.
“You left the letter in another suit,” declared Carpenter. “Quite thoughtless of you. I extracted it at a convenient moment.”
Morton’s glower returned. The man clenched his fists and appeared to be on the verge of attacking his oppressor. Carpenter, however, was quite unperturbed.
“If you have the letters,” blurted Morton suddenly, “prove it to me!”
Carpenter brought two sheets of paper from his pocket. Morton snatched them. Carpenter laughed.
“Photostatic copies,” he said. “Simple proofs that the originals are in my possession.”
Gifford Morton paced up and down the room, a wave of changing humors passing over his features. At last, he paused and flung the photostatic prints into Carpenter’s hands.
“Suppose I do not pay you,” demanded Morton. “What do you propose to do with those letters?”
“Mrs. Morton has an excellent attorney,” replied Carpenter. “He would pay well for them.”
“A hundred thousand dollars?”
“More, perhaps — after the settlement of the divorce money.”
“Take them to him, then!” stormed Morton.
“With pleasure,” retorted Carpenter. “It was my desire to give you a real opportunity, Morton. I figure that you are good for a hundred thousand — plus the ten I mentioned — and I intend to get it from you. So, after I make arrangements with the lawyer, on this proposition, I shall return to you with another proposal.”
MORTON’S mouth opened wide.
“In my possession,” continued Carpenter, “I have letters that tell of your transactions with the Colondora Power Company. It was quite clever — the way you organized that corporation; then deliberately crowded out the subsidiaries.
“If those facts were known, I think the value of the stock you hold would drop at least ten dollars a share. You have approximately twelve thousand shares, I understand. That would mean a loss of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, to say nothing of the injury it would do to your prestige and your future negotiations—”
“One moment — one moment — ” Morton’s interruption was a hasty one. “Let me talk to you. I want to ask you some questions—”
The multimillionaire was excited. He was trembling as he made his plea. Carpenter ceased speaking, settled back in his chair, and lighted another cigarette.
Morton walked to the window, turned and faced the man who was threatening him. He gradually regained his calm.
“Let me study your proposal,” said Morton slowly. “You want me to pay you one hundred and ten thousand dollars.”
“Correct.”
“That is a demand—”
“Exactly.”
“In return for this money,” added Morton, “you will give me certain letters which are in your possession. You paid money to a certain person to write the first letter, did you not?”
“I did.”
“And you stole it from me after I received it—”
“I stole it.”
“And you paid a thousand dollars for the letter which I wrote—”
“One thousand dollars.”
Carpenter was smiling as he baited the millionaire. Morton rubbed his hand across his forehead as though in deep despair. He picked up the photostatic papers that Carpenter had laid on the table beside him.
“You had these copies made,” said Morton slowly. “Made from letters which you obtained through the woman whose name appears upon them. It was a conspiracy—”
“It was a conspiracy,” repeated Carpenter.
“More than that,” declared Morton, “at present you are trying to blackmail me. Do you understand that? This is blackmail!”
“Of course it is,” retorted Carpenter curtly. “I’m glad it has dawned upon you. I am blackmailing you, Morton. Blackmail is my game. Now come across!”
Morton fished in his pocket and removed a wad of bills. He counted the money in a shaky hand. He extended it to Carpenter.
“Here is the ten thousand that we spoke about,” he said, “and ten thousand more. As for the other ninety thousand—”
“Colondora stock will be satisfactory to me,” rejoined Carpenter. “You have more than ninety thousand dollars’ worth of it here. You were planning to unload it. I can do that as well as you—”
Gifford Morton spread his hands in the manner of a man who admits defeat. He smiled weakly, and walked with unsteady tread toward the door of an inner room.
“This is blackmail, Carpenter,” he said.
“Certainly it’s blackmail,” declared Carpenter.
Morton’s smile became grim as he placed his hand upon the knob of the door and slowly turned it.
“I’m glad you admitted that,” he said, in a firm voice. “Blackmail is your game. Carpenter — and the game is ended!”
With that, Gifford Morton opened the door. Two grinning men stepped forth, each holding a stubby revolver. Behind them followed a young man in a Tuxedo, carrying a notebook.
“Two detectives, Carpenter,” explained Morton, with a broad grin. “The other is my secretary, Gorman. You were oversure of yourself when you stole that letter. When I discovered that it was gone, I prepared for an affair like this one.”
A look of consternation spread over Herbert Carpenter’s face. He sat, unmoving, in the chair, covered by the weapons of the private detectives. It was Gifford Morton’s turn to be triumphant.
“They’ve tried to blackmail me before,” declared Morton. “I’ll give you credit, Carpenter — you’re the smoothest of the lot. But not smooth enough. You have all the notes, Gorman?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the secretary.
“They will be useful,” said Morton, “particularly as the final portion of our conversation is peculiarly incriminating. Gorman is an unusually good stenographer. With three witnesses to verify our discussion, your chances are quite thin, Carpenter.”