Short stories, American; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
“That big blue machine that was to have killed me the other night,” he
went on, stretching matters a little in so far as his own knowledge
was concerned, “was all arranged for long before you came down here.
I haven’t the slightest idea why you work for Tilney, but I know now
that that’s what you’re doing, and I’m sick of you and the whole thing.
You’re just a plain little crook, that’s all, and I’m through with you
and this whole thing, and I don’t want you to talk to me any more.
What’s more, I’m not going to leave this hotel, either, and you can
take that news to Tilney if you want to, or Mrs. Skelton or whoever
else is managing things here for him. I’ve kept a day-to-day record
of everything that’s happened so far, and I have witnesses, and if
anything more happens to me here I’m going to the newspapers and expose
the whole thing. If you had any sense of decency left you wouldn’t be
in on anything like this, but you haven’t--you’re just a shabby little
trickster, and that lets you out, and that’s all I have to say.”
He stood up and made as if to walk off, while Miss Carle sat there,
seemingly dazed, then jumped up and called after him:
“Mr. Gregory! Please! Please! Mr. Gregory, I want to tell you
something!”
He stopped and turned. She came hurriedly up to him.
“Don’t go,” she pleaded, “not just yet. Wait a minute. Please come
back. I want to talk to you.” And though he looked at her rather
determinedly, he followed her.
“Well?” he asked.
“You don’t understand how it is,” she pleaded, with a look of real
concern in her eyes. “And I can’t tell you either, just now, but I
will some time if you will let me. But I like you, and I really don’t
want to do you any harm. Really, I don’t. I don’t know anything about
these automobile things you’re telling about--truly I don’t. They’re
all terrible and horrible to me, and if they are trying to do anything
like that, I don’t know it, and I won’t have anything more to do with
it--really I won’t. Oh, it’s terrible!” and she clenched her hands.
“I do know Mr. Diamondberg now, I admit that, but I didn’t before I
came down here, and Mr. Swayne and Mr. Tilney. I did come here to see
if I could get you interested in me, but they didn’t tell me just
why. They told me--Mrs. Skelton did--that you, or some people whom
you represented, were trying to get evidence against some friends of
theirs--Mr. Tilney’s, I believe--who were absolutely innocent, that you
weren’t happy with your wife, and that if some one, any one, were able
to make you fall in love with her or just become very good friends,
she might be able to persuade you not to do it, you see. There wasn’t
any plan, so far as I know, to injure you bodily in any way. They
didn’t tell me that they wanted to injure you physically--really they
didn’t. That’s all news to me, and dreadful. All they said was that
they wanted to get some one to get you to stop--make it worth your
while in a money way, if I could. I didn’t think there was anything so
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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