WAS soon given some other things to think about, though in a way these too had a bearing on Miss and Mrs. Curwen.
Zellers, the pickpocket, more familiarly known as "Hop"—probably an abbreviation of "Hop-Head"—had evidently not been so drunk as I thought. He had talked, apparently, a good deal about "his letter." He had talked promiscuously.
The fact that he told conflicting reports, and elaborated what the letter contained at every recital, did not at all minimize the interest his drunken blabbering had stirred up in a most surprizing fashion.
I began to have people speak to me about the letter. Some ventured to intimate that they would like to read it. Two fellows of Zellers' stripe, with himself hanging sheepishly at their coat-tails, came to demand it of me. It was Zellers' letter. Not mine.
I ought to give it up, et cetera, et cetera, to the point of intimating that I had appropriated it for a little personal graft on my own behalf. For fellows who had put on such an assertive manner and talked at such length, they made rather abrupt apologies, and retired without knowing any more about the letter than when they came.
What I thought must certainly be the climax arrived the day after I had returned the letter in the presence of a stranger who introduced himself as Edwin Ellis and asked for a private conversation. He was obviously from the other world—the business world. He had brains and a knowledge of men in general, but I fancy that I added a little to his store of information concerning men in particular.
Mr. Edwin Ellis was a small man, neat as a burnished rapier and much like that most flexible, subtle and sharpest of all weapons. He opened with commendable directness, scrutinizing my face with flint-like gray eyes, and perhaps wondering how a young man of my age could have the reputation I had.
"I understand," he said in a straight businesslike manner and tone, "that you have come into possession of a letter from the office of Congressman Bryan."
A pause. His manner was sharply interrogatory. I said nothing.
"Am I correct?"
"Go on," I replied noncommittally.
"There is no occasion to go on until I have assurance on that point."
"Very well," I said.
I was curious, of course. I didn't want him to get away without knowing why he came. But the supreme schooling in Bluff is had at the green table.
"You decline to answer yes or no?"
"I see no reason for answering yes or no until I understand why you ask."
He paused thoughtfully, not once shifting his eyes from mine. I reflected that he would have made a fine poker player; but I guessed that he had probably chosen law. It, too, is a fine game for clever crooks. An honest lawyer—that is, honest in spirit rather than merely scrupulously observant of what is called the "ethics of the profession—" will, I am sure, become as familiar with empty pockets as an honest gambler. He was, I found later, not a lawyer but a detective, and from the East; so different from such detectives as I knew that he had none of their mannerisms.
Mr. Ellis and I lapsed into silence. We would probably have remained all through the afternoon and all night, too, if he had not at last decided that I did not intend to say anything more until he advanced the conversation.
He did, with customary directness, thus—
"I am prepared to pay you any reasonable sum you may ask if you place the letter in my hands."
Figuratively, I sat up and took notice. Actually, I did not let a muscle of face or finger move.
"Reasonable?"
My intonation finished the question, made it explicit: how much did he consider the maximum of "reasonable"? I was really anxious to know of how much importance, measured in terms of money, that letter was considered.
With the air of a man who thought he was driving home his bargain, he
"Ten thousand!"
I let a second or two pass, then barely shook my head, but made no other reply. That got under his armor. He exclaimed—
"You've read the letter—you know you can't possibly get more than that out of it?"
"How do you know its contents?" I asked quickly.
"I don't," he said as quickly. "But I know who the concerned parties are, and I mow what they will pay."
"Concerned parties—how do you mean?"
"I will mention no names. No names." A pause. Then—"But how much will you take to give the address—the address of that letter?"