“Well, to end this matter,” he said, “what do you want for this precious information?” “Hadn’t you better know first what it is?” demanded the other. “Oh,” he said, as he saw on Matthewson’s face what he regarded as a protest; “it won’t spoil the goods to show ’em. I’d just as lief tell you before as after. It’s silence I’m selling; not facts.” “I don’t need you to repeat your talk; and what’s more, it won’t be safe for you to,” Matthewson said. “I know perfectly well what it would be; but I warn you not to dare speak it.” The man in the alcove almost betrayed himself as he heard this astounding acknowledgment. After all, had he mistaken what he had seen, and was this the real secret he had been trying to unravel? Cranston was speaking again: “Threatened men live long. You’ll get just as much for as little money, if you keep a civil tongue. I’ve got silence to sell; but I’m just blamed fool enough, if you get me mad, to refuse to sell at any price.” “Then your proposition is that if I pay you your price, you’ll keep silence regarding your discovery as to Theodore Wing’s mother; and that if I do not, you’ll sell your information to any one who will pay you for it, regardless of the injury it may do me or any one connected with me?” “That’s about it, in plain English.” “It’s it, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s it.” “And you think that this information, if made public, would do me and those connected with me harm.” “I don’t know what you call harm, if it wouldn’t. ’Twould be the end of the Matthewson family, socially and politically. They’d have to find another boss for Maine after this thing got out.” “It’s just as well,” said the lawyer, “to keep within bounds in your remarks; they’re as likely to accomplish your purpose.” But Cranston was smarting under his previous failure. He had tried to deal squarely with Mrs. Matthewson and had met refusal and insult. There was the possibility that, had he adopted a higher tone, he would have succeeded. He was resolved not to fail from the same cause this time. “I’m answering questions,” he said, “and I’ll answer ’em in my own way. If you don’t like it, you don’t need to.” It required a terrible effort on Matthewson’s part to prevent his openly resenting this insolence, and he was conscious of a distinctive loss of self-respect that he did not at once pitch the fellow out of the room. “Let’s get through with this thing and be done with it,” he said. “How much will your silence cost me?” “Twenty-five thousand dollars,” answered Cranston. Mr. Matthewson was startled at the figure. “Why, man, you’re crazy!” he exclaimed. “I know it,” said Cranston. “I ought to have a hundred, but I ain’t going to be hard. I’ve set my price at twenty-five.” “And you’ll take five,” retorted Matthewson. “I wouldn’t take twenty-four thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents,” answered Cranston. “I’ve fixed my price, and it’s that or nothing.”