Mrs. Balfame: A NovelAtherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
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Mrs. Balfame: A Novel
Atherton, Gertrude Franklin Horn
Murder -- Fiction; Mystery fiction; United States -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
"Ah! You saw something else! You have been afraid to speak out, as there
had been talk of your father having employed gun-men--"
"Such lies!" shrieked young Kraus.
"Of course! I know that. So does the press. That was a wild dream of
the police. But all the same you thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to
keep clear of the whole business. That is true. Don't attempt to deny
it. You saw something that would put the law on the right track. Now,
what was it? There are five hundred dollars waiting for you if you will
tell the truth. I don't want anything but the truth, mind you. I don't
represent a paper that pays for lies, so your honour is quite safe. So
also are you."
Conrad ruminated for a few moments. He was literal and honest and wanted
to be quite positive that he was not asked to do something which would
make him feel uncomfortable while investing those desirable five hundred
dollars in West Elsinore town lots, and could reassure himself that the
truth was always right whether commercially valuable or not. He balanced
the pro's and con's so long that Bruce was about to break out
impatiently just as he made up his mind.
"Yes, I saw something. But I wished to say nothing. They might say that
I was in it, or that I lied to protect Frieda--"
"That's all right. There was no possible connection between her and
Balfame--"
Conrad went on exactly as if the reporter had not interrupted. "I had
seen Frieda through the back door. She was crying with the toothache,
and I heard her run upstairs. I thought I would wait a few moments. The
drops she said she had might not cure her, and she might want me to go
to a dentist's house with her. She had gone in the back-hall door.
Suddenly I saw the kitchen door open, and as I was starting forward, I
saw that it was not Frieda who came out. It was Mrs. Balfame. She closed
the door behind her, and then crept past me to the back of the kitchen
yard. I watched her and saw her turn suddenly and walk toward the grove.
She did not make a particle of noise--"
"How do you know it was not Frieda?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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