The First Men In The Moon


The Frame Up
Richard Harding Davis
When the voice over the telephone promised to name the man who killed Hermann 
Banf, District Attorney Wharton was up- town lunching at Delmonico's. This was 
contrary to his custom and a concession to Hamilton Cutler, his distinguished 
brother-in-law. That gentleman was interested in a State constabulary bill and 
had asked State Senator Bissell to father it. He had suggested to the senator 
that, in the legal points involved in the bill, his brother-in-law would 
undoubtedly be charmed to advise him. So that morning, to talk it over, Bissell 
had come from Albany and, as he was forced to return the same afternoon, had 
asked Wharton to lunch with him up-town near the station. 
That in public life there breathed a man with soul so dead who, were he offered 
a chance to serve Hamilton Cutler, would not jump at the chance was outside the 
experience of the county chairman. And in so judging his fellow men, with the 
exception of one man, the senator was right. The one man was Hamilton Cutler's 
brother-in-law. 
In the national affairs of his party Hamilton Cutler was one of the four 
leaders. In two cabinets he had held office. At a foreign court as an ambassador 
his dinners, of which the diplomatic corps still spoke with emotion, had upheld 
the dignity of ninety million Americans. He was rich. The history of his family 
was the history of the State. When the Albany boats drew abreast of the old 
Cutler mansion on the cast bank of the Hudson the passengers pointed at it with 
deference. Even when the search lights pointed at it, it was with deference. And 
on Fifth Avenue, as the "Seeing New York" car passed his town house it slowed 
respectfully to half speed. When, apparently for no other reason than that she 
was good and beautiful, he had married the sister of a then unknown up State 
lawyer, every one felt Hamilton Cutler had made his first mistake. But, like 
every thing else into which he entered, for him matrimony also was a success. 
The prettiest girl in Utica showed herself worthy of her distinguished husband. 
She had given him children as beautiful as herself; as what Washington calls " a 
cabinet lady " she had kept her name out of the newspapers; as Madame 
L'Ambassatrice she had put archduchesses at their ease; and after ten years she 
was an adoring wife, a devoted mother, and a proud woman. Her pride was in 
believing that for every joy she knew she was indebted entirely to her husband. 
To owe everything to him, to feel that through him the blessings flowed, was her 
ideal of happiness. 
In this ideal her brother did not share. Her delight in a sense of obligation 
left him quite cold. No one better than himself knew that his rapid-fire rise in 
public favor was due to his own exertions, to the fact that he had worked very 
hard, had been independent, had kept his hands clean, and had worn no man's 
collar. Other people believed he owed his advancement to his brother-in-law. He 
knew they believed that, and it hurt him. When, at the annual dinner of the Amen 
Corner, they burlesqued him as singing to "Ham" Cutler, "You made me what I am 
to-day, I hope you're satisfied," he found that to laugh with the others was 
something of an effort. His was a difficult position. He was a party man; he had 
always worked inside the organization. The fact that whenever he ran for an 
elective office the reformers indorsed him and the best elements in the 
opposition parties voted for him did not shake his loyalty to his own people. 
And to Hamilton Cutler, as one of his party leaders, as one of the bosses of the 
"invisible government," he was willing to defer. But while he could give 
allegiance to his party leaders, and from them was willing to receive the 
rewards of office, from a rich brother-in-law he was not at all willing to 
accept anything. Still less was he willing that of the credit he deserved for 
years of hard work for the party, of self-denial, and of efficient public 
service the rich brother-in-law, should rob him. 
His pride was to be known as a self-made man, as the servant only of the voters. 
And now that ambition, now that he was district attorney of New York City, to 
have it said that the office was the gift of his brother-in-law was bitter. But 
he believed the injustice would soon end. In a month he was coming up for 
re-election, and night and day was conducting a campaign that he hoped would 
result in a personal victory so complete as to banish the shadow of his 
brother-in-law. Were he re-elected by the majority on which he counted, he would 
have the party leaders on their knees. Hamilton Cutler would be forced to come 
to him. He would be in line for promotion. He knew the leaders did not want to 
promote him, that they considered him too inclined to kick over the traces; but 
were he now re-elected, at the next election, either for mayor or governor, he 
would be his party's obvious and legitimate candidate. 
The re-election was not to be an easy victory. Outside his own party, to prevent 
his succeeding himself as district attorney, Tammany Hall was using every weapon 
in her armory. The commissioner of police was a Tammany man, and in the public 
prints Wharton had repeatedly declared that Banf, his star witness against the 
police, had been killed by the police, and that they had prevented the discovery 
of his murderer. For this the wigwam wanted his scalp, and to get it had raked 
his public and private life, had used threats and bribes, and with women had 
tried to trap him into a scandal. But "Big Tim" Meehan, the lieutenant the Hall 
had detailed to destroy Wharton, had reported back that for their purpose his 
record was useless, that bribes and threats only flattered him, and that the 
traps set for him he had smilingly side- stepped. This was the situation a month 
before election day when, to oblige his brother-in-law, Wharton was up-town at 
Delmonico's lunching with Senator Bissell. 
Down-town at the office, Rumson, the assistant district attorney, was on his way 
to lunch when the telephone-girl halted him. Her voice was lowered and betrayed 
almost human interest. 
From the corner of her mouth she whispered: "This man has a note for Mr. 
Wharton--says if he don't get it quick it'll be too late--says it will tell him 
who killed 'Heimie' Banf!" 
The young man and the girl looked at each other and smiled. Their experience had 
not tended to make them credulous. Had he lived, Hermann Banf would have been, 
for Wharton, the star witness against a ring of corrupt police officials. In 
consequence his murder was more than the taking off of a shady and disreputable 
citizen. It was a blow struck at the high office of the district attorney, at 
the grand jury, and the law. But, so far, whoever struck the blow had escaped 
punishment, and though for a month, ceaselessly, by night and day "the office" 
and the police had sought him, he was still at large, still "unknown." There had 
been hundreds of clews. They had been furnished by the detectives of the city 
and county and of the private agencies, by amateurs, by news- papers, by members 
of the underworld with a score to pay off or to gain favor. But no clew had led 
anywhere. When, in hoarse whispers, the last one had been confided to him by his 
detectives, Wharton had protested indignantly. 
"Stop bringing me clews!" he exclaimed. "I want the man. I can't electrocute a 
clew!" 
So when, after all other efforts, over the telephone a strange voice offered to 
deliver the murderer, Rumson was skeptical. He motioned the girl to switch to 
the desk telephone. 
"Assistant District Attorney Rumson speaking," he said. "What can I do for 
you?"' 
Before the answer came, as though the speaker were choosing his words, there was 
a pause. It lasted so long that Rumson exclaimed sharply: 
"Hello," he called. "Do you want to speak to me, or do you want to speak to me?" 

"I've gotta letter for the district attorney," said the voice. "I'm to give it 
to nobody but him. It's about Banf. He must get it quick, or it'll be too late." 

"Who are you?" demanded Rumson. "Where are you speaking from?" 
The man at the other end of the wire ignored the questions. 
"Where'll Wharton be for the next twenty minutes? " 
"If I tell you, "parried Rumson, "will you bring the letter at once?" The voice 
exclaimed indignantly: 
"Bring nothing! I'll send it by district messenger. You're wasting time trying 
to reach me. It's the LETTER you want. It tells----" the voice broke with an 
oath and instantly began again: "I can't talk over a phone. I tell you, it's 
life or death. If you lose out, it's your own fault. Where can I find Wharton?" 
"At Delmonico's," answered Rumson. "He'll be there until two o'clock." 
"Delmonico's! That's Forty-fort Street?" "Right," said Rumson. "Tell the 
messenger----" He heard the receiver slam upon the hook. With the light of the 
hunter in his eyes, he turned to the girl. 
"They can laugh," he cried, "but I believe we've hooked something. I'm going 
after it." In the waiting-room he found the detectives. "Hewitt, " he ordered, 
"take the subway and whip up to Delmonico's. Talk to the taxi-starter till a 
messenger-boy brings a letter for the D. A. Let the boy deliver the note, and 
then trail him till he reports to the man he got it from. Bring the man here. If 
it's a district messenger and he doesn't report, but goes straight back to the 
office, find out who gave him the note; get his description. Then meet me at 
Delmonico's." 
Rumson called up that restaurant and had Wharton come to the phone. He asked his 
chief to wait until a letter he believed to be of great importance was delivered 
to him. He explained, but, of necessity, somewhat sketchily. "It sounds to me," 
commented his chief, "like a plot of yours to get a lunch up- town." 
"Invitation!" cried Rumson. "I'll be with you in ten minutes." 
After Rumson had joined Wharton and Bissell the note arrived. It was brought to 
the restaurant by a messenger-boy, who said that in answer to a call from a 
saloon on Sixth Avenue he had received it from a young man in ready-to-wear 
clothes and a green hat. When Hewitt, the detective, asked what the young man 
looked like, the boy said he looked like a young man in ready-to-wear clothes 
and a green hat. But when the note was read the identity of the man who 
delivered it ceased to be of importance. The paper on which it was written was 
without stamped address or monogram, and carried with it the mixed odors of the 
drug-store at which it had been purchased. The handwriting was that of a woman, 
and what she had written was: "If the district attorney will come at once, and 
alone, to Kessler's Cafe, on the Boston Post Road, near the city line, he will 
be told who killed Hermann Banf. If he don't come in an hour, it will be too 
late. If he brings anybody with him, he won't be told anything. Leave your car 
in the road and walk up the drive. Ida Earle." 
Hewitt, who had sent away the messenger-boy and had been called in to give 
expert advice, was enthusiastic. 
"Mr. District Attorney," he cried, "that's no crank letter. This Earle woman is 
wise. You got to take her as a serious proposition. She wouldn't make that play 
if she couldn't get away with it." 
"Who is she?" asked Wharton. 
To the police, the detective assured them, Ida Earle had been known for years. 
When she was young she had been under the protection of a man high in the ranks 
of Tammany, and, in consequence, with her different ventures the Police had 
never interfered. She now was proprietress of the road-house in the note 
described as Kessler's Cafe. It was a place for joy- riders. There was a 
cabaret, a hall for public dancing, and rooms for very private suppers. 
In so far as it welcomed only those who could spend money it was exclusive, but 
in all other respects its reputation was of the worst. In situation it was 
lonely, and from other houses separated by a quarter of a mile of dying trees 
and vacant lots. 
The Boston Post Road upon which it faced was the old post road, but lately, 
through this back yard and dumping-ground of the city, had been relaid. It was 
patrolled only and infrequently by bicycle policemen. "But this," continued the 
detective eagerly, "is where we win out. The road-house is an old farmhouse 
built over, with the barns changed into garages. They stand on the edge of a 
wood. It's about as big as a city block. If we come in through the woods from 
the rear, the garages will hide us. Nobody in the house can see us, but we won't 
be a hundred yards away. You've only to blow a police whistle and we'll be with 
you." 
"You mean I ought to go?" said Wharton. 
Rumson exclaimed incredulously: "You got to go!" 
"It looks to me," objected Bissell, "like a plot to get you there alone and rap 
you on the head." "Not with that note inviting him there," protested Hewitt, 
"and signed by Earle herself." 
"You don't know she signed it?" objected the senator. 
"I know her," returned the detective. "I know she's no fool. It's her place, and 
she wouldn't let them pull off any rough stuff there--not against the D. A. 
anyway" 
The D. A. was rereading the note. "Might this be it?" he asked. "Suppose it's a 
trick to mix me up in a scandal? You say the place is disreputable. Suppose 
they're planning to compromise me just before election. They've tried it already 
several times." 
"You've still got the note, If persisted Hewitt. "It proves why you went there. 
And the senator, too. He can testify. And we won't be hundred yards away. And," 
he added grudgingly, "you have Nolan." 
Nolan was the spoiled child of 'the office.' He was the district attorney's pet. 
Although still young, he had scored as a detective and as a driver of 
racing-cars. As Wharton's chauffeur he now doubled the parts. 
"What Nolan testified wouldn't be any help," said Wharton. "They would say it 
was just a story he invented to save me." 
"Then square yourself this way," urged Rumson. "Send a note now by hand to Ham 
Cutler and one to your sister. Tell them you're going to Ida Earle's--and 
why--tell them you're afraid it's a frame-up, and for them to keep your notes as 
evidence. And enclose the one from her." 
Wharton nodded in approval, and, while he wrote, Rumson and the detective 
planned how, without those inside the road- house being aware of their presence, 
they might be near it. 
Kessler's Cafe lay in the Seventy-ninth Police Precinct. In taxi-cabs they 
arranged to start at once and proceed down White Plains Avenue, which parallels 
the Boston Road, until they were on a line with Kessler's, but from it hidden by 
the woods and the garages. A walk of a quarter of a mile across lots and under 
cover of the trees would bring them to within a hundred yards of the house. 
Wharton was to give them a start of half an hour. That he might know they were 
on watch, they agreed, after they dismissed the taxi-cabs, to send one of them 
into the Boston Post Road past the road-house. When it was directly in front of 
the cafe, the chauffeur would throw away into the road an empty cigarette-case. 
From the cigar-stand they selected a cigarette box of a startling yellow. At 
half a mile it was conspicuous. 
"When you see this in the road," explained Rumson, "you'll know we're on the 
job. And after you're inside, if you need us, you've only to go to a rear window 
and wave." 
"If they mean to do him up," growled Bissell, "he won't get to a rear window." 
"He can always tell them we're outside," said Rumson----"and they are extremely 
likely to believe him. Do you want a gun?" 
"No," said the D. A. 
"Better have mine,"' urged Hewitt. 
"I have my own," explained the D. A. 
Rumson and Hewitt set off in taxi-cabs and, a half-hour later, Wharton followed. 
As he sank back against the cushions of the big touring-car he felt a pleasing 
thrill of excitement, and as he passed the traffic police, and they saluted 
mechanically, he smiled. Had they guessed his errand their interest in his 
progress would have been less perfunctory. In half an hour he might know that 
the police killed Banf; in half an hour he himself might walk into a trap they 
had, in turn, staged for him. As the car ran swiftly through the clean October 
air, and the wind and sun alternately chilled and warmed his blood, Wharton 
considered these possibilities. 
He could not believe the woman Earle would lend herself to any plot to do him 
bodily harm. She was a responsible person. In her own world she was as important 
a figure as was the district attorney in his. Her allies were the man "higher up 
" in Tammany and the police of the upper ranks of the uniformed force. And of 
the higher office of the district attorney she possessed an intimate and 
respectful knowledge. It was not to be considered that against the prosecuting 
attorney such a woman would wage war. So the thought that upon his person any 
assault was meditated Wharton dismissed as unintelligent. That it was upon his 
reputation the attack was planned seemed much more probable. But that 
contingency he had foreseen and so, he believed, forestalled. There then 
remained only the possibility that the offer in the letter was genuine. It 
seemed quite too good to be true. For, as he asked himself, on the very eve of 
an election, why should Tammany, or a friend of Tammany, place in his possession 
the information that to the Tammany candidate would bring inevitable defeat. He 
felt that the way they were playing into his hands was too open, too generous. 
If their object was to lead him into a trap, of all baits they might use the 
promise to tell him who killed Banf was the one certain to attract him. It made 
their invitation to walk into the parlor almost too obvious. But were the offer 
not genuine, there was a condition attached to it that puzzled him. It was not 
the condition that stipulated he should come alone. His experience had taught 
him many will confess, or betray, to the district attorney who, to a deputy, 
will tell nothing. The condition that puzzled him was the one that insisted he 
should come at once or it would be "too late." 
Why was haste so imperative? Why, if he delayed, would he be "too late"? Was the 
man he sought about to escape from his jurisdiction, was he dying, and was it 
his wish to make a death-bed confession; or was he so reluctant to speak that 
delay might cause him to reconsider and remain silent? 
With these questions in his mind, the minutes quickly passed, and it was with a 
thrill of excitement Wharton saw that Nolan had left the Zoological Gardens on 
the right and turned into the Boston Road. It had but lately been completed and 
to Wharton was unfamiliar. On either side of the unscarred roadway still lay 
scattered the uprooted trees and boulders that had blocked its progress, and 
abandoned by the contractors were empty tar-barrels, cement-sacks, tool-sheds, 
and forges. Nor was the surrounding landscape less raw and unlovely. Toward the 
Sound stretched vacant lots covered with ash heaps; to the left a few old and 
broken houses set among the glass-covered cold frames of truck-farms. 
The district attorney felt a sudden twinge of loneliness. And when an automobile 
sign told him he was "10 miles from Columbus Circle," he felt that from the New 
York he knew he was much farther. Two miles up the road his car overhauled a 
bicycle policeman, and Wharton halted him. 
"Is there a road-house called Kessler's beyond here?" he asked. 
"On the left, farther up, "the officer told him, and added: "You can't miss it ' 
Mr. Wharton; there's no other house near it." 
"You know me," said the D.A. "Then you'll understand what I want you to do. I've 
agreed to go to that house alone. If they see you pass they may think I'm not 
playing fair. So stop here. 
The man nodded and dismounted. 
"But," added the district attorney, as the car started forward again, "If you 
hear shots, I don't care how fast you come." 
The officer grinned. 
"Better let me trail along now," he called; "that's a tough joint." 
But Wharton motioned him back; and when again he turned to look the man still 
stood where they had parted. 
Two minutes later an empty taxi-cab came swiftly toward him and, as it passed, 
the driver lifted his hand from the wheel, and with his thumb motioned behind 
him. 
"That's one of the men," said Nolan,"that started with Mr. Rumson and Hewitt 
from Delmonico's." 
Wharton nodded; and, now assured that in their plan there had been no hitch, 
smiled with satisfaction. A moment later, when ahead of them on the asphalt road 
Nolan pointed out a spot of yellow, he recognized the signal and knew that 
within call were friends. 
The yellow cigarette-box lay directly in front of a long wooden building of two 
stories. It was linked to the road by a curving driveway marked on either side 
by whitewashed stones. 
On verandas enclosed In glass Wharton saw white-covered tables under red 
candle-shade and, protruding from one end of the house and hung with electric 
lights in paper lanterns, a pavilion for dancing. In the rear of the house stood 
sheds and a thick tangle of trees on which the autumn leaves showed yellow 
painted fingers and arrows pointing, and an electric sign, proclaimed to all who 
passed that this was Kessler's. In spite of its reputation, the house wore the 
aspect of the commonplace. In evidence nothing flaunted, nothing threatened From 
a dozen other inns along the Pelham Parkway and the Boston Post Road it was no 
way to be distinguished. 
As directed In the note, Wharton left the car in the road." For five minutes 
stay where yo are," he ordered Nolan; "then go to the bar and get a drink. Don't 
talk to any one or they'll think you're trying to get information. Work around 
to the back of the house. Stand where I can see you from the window. I may want 
you to carry a message to Mr. Rumson. 
On foot Wharton walked up the curved drive-way, and if from the house his 
approach was spied upon, there was no evidence. In the second story the blinds 
were drawn and on the first floor the verandas were empty. Nor, not even after 
he had mounted to the veranda and stepped inside the house, was there any sign 
that his visit was expected. He stood in a hall, and in front of him rose a 
broad flight of stairs that he guessed led to the private supper-rooms. On his 
left was the restaurant. 
Swept and garnished after the revels of the night previous, and as though 
resting in preparation for those to come, it an air of peaceful inactivity. At a 
table a maitre d'ho'tel was composing the menu for the evening, against the 
walls three colored waiters lounged sleepily, and on a platform at a piano a 
pale youth with drugged eyes was with one hand picking an accompaniment. As 
Wharton paused uncertainly the young man, disdaining his audience, in a shrill, 
nasal tenor raised his voice and sang: 
     "And from the time the rooster calls    I'll wear my overalls,
      And you, a simple gingham gown.   So, if you're strong for a
shower of rice,     We two could make a paradise   Of any One-Horse

Town." 
At sight of Wharton the head waiter reluctantly detached himself from his menu 
and rose. But before he could greet the visitor, Wharton heard his name spoken 
and, looking up, saw a woman descending the stairs. It was apparent that when 
young she had been beautiful, and, in spite of an expression in her eyes of 
hardness and distrust, which seemed habitual, she was still handsome. She was 
without a hat and wearing a house dress of decorous shades and in the extreme of 
fashion. Her black hair, built up in artificial waves, was heavy with 
brilliantine; her hands, covered deep with rings, and of an unnatural white, 
showed the most fastidious care. But her complexion was her own; and her skin, 
free from paint and powder, glowed with that healthy pink that is supposed to be 
the perquisite only of the simple life and a conscience undisturbed. 
"I am Mrs. Earle," said the woman. "I wrote you that note. Will you please come 
this way?" 
That she did not suppose he might not come that way was obvious, for, as she 
spoke, she turned her back on him and mounted the stairs. After an instant of 
hesitation, Wharton followed. 
As well as his mind, his body was now acutely alive and vigilant. Both 
physically and mentally he moved on tiptoe. For whatever surprise, for whatever 
ambush might lie in wait, he was prepared. At the top of the stairs he found a 
wide hall along which on both sides were many doors. The one directly facing the 
stairs stood open. At one side of this the woman halted and with a gesture of 
the jewelled fingers invited him to enter. 
"My sitting-room," she said. As Wharton remained motionless she substituted: " 
My office." 
Peering into the room, Wharton found it suited to both titles. He saw 
comfortable chairs, vases filled with autumn leaves, in silver frames 
photographs, and between two open windows a business-like roller-top desk on 
which was a hand telephone. In plain sight through the windows he beheld the 
garage and behind it the tops of trees. To summon Rumson, to keep in touch with 
Nolan, he need only step to one of these windows and beckon. The strategic 
position of the room appealed, and with a bow of the head he passed in front of 
his hostess and entered it. He continued to take note of his surroundings. 
He now saw that from the office in which he stood doors led to rooms adjoining. 
These doors were shut, and he determined swiftly that before the interview began 
he first must know what lay behind them. Mrs. Earle had followed and, as she 
entered, closed the door. 
"No!" said Wharton. 
It was the first time he had spoken. For an instant the woman hesitated, 
regarding him thoughtfully, and then without resentment pulled the door open. 
She came toward him swiftly, and he was conscious of the rustle of silk and the 
stirring of perfumes. At the open door she cast a frown of disapproval and then, 
with her face close to his, spoke hurriedly in a whisper. 
"A man brought a girl here to lunch," she said; "they've been here before. The 
girl claims the man told her he was going to marry her. Last night she found out 
he has a wife already, and she came here to-day meaning to make trouble. She 
brought a gun. They were in the room at the far end of the hall. George, the 
water, heard the two shots and ran down here to get me. No one else heard. These 
rooms are fixed to keep out noise, and the piano was going. We broke in and 
found them on the floor. The man was shot through the shoulder, the girl through 
the body. His story is that after she fired, in trying to get the gun from her, 
she shot herself-by accident. That's right, I guess. But the girl says they came 
here to die together--what the newspaper call a 'suicide pact'-- because they 
couldn't marry, and that he first shot her, intending to kill her and then 
himself. That's silly. She framed it to get him. She missed him with the gun, so 
now she's trying to get him with this murder charge. I know her. If she'd been 
sober she wouldn't have shot him; she'd have blackmailed him. She's that sort. I 
know her, and----" 
With an exclamation the district attorney broke in upon her. "And the man," he 
demanded eagerly; "was it HE killed Banf?" 
In amazement the woman stared. "Certainly NOT!" she said. 
"Then what HAS this to do with Banf?" 
"Nothing!" Her tone was annoyed, reproachful. "That was only to bring you here" 
His disappointment was so keen that it threatened to exhibit itself in anger. 
Recognizing this, before he spoke Wharton forced himself to pause. Then he 
repeated her words quietly. 
"Bring me here?" he asked. "Why?" 
The woman exclaimed impatiently: "So you could beat the police to it," she 
whispered. "So you could HUSH IT UP!" 
The surprised laugh of the man was quite real. It bore no resentment or pose. He 
was genuinely amused. Then the dignity of his office, tricked and insulted, 
demanded to be heard. He stared at her coldly; his indignation was apparent. 
"You have done extremely ill," he told her. "You know perfectly well you had no 
right to bring me up here; to drag me into a row in your road-house. 'Hush it 
up!"' he exclaimed hotly. This time his laugh was contemptuous and threatening. 
"I'll show you how I'll hush it up!" He moved quickly to the open window. 
"Stop!" commanded the woman. "You can't do that!" She ran to the door. 
Again he was conscious of the rustle of silk, of the stirring of perfumes. 
He heard the key turn in the lock. It had Come. It was a frame-up. There would 
be a scandal. And to save himself from it they would force him to "hush up" this 
other one. But, as to the outcome, in no way was he concerned. Through the 
window, standing directly below it, he had seen Nolan. In the sunlit yard the 
chauffeur, his cap on the back of his head, his cigarette drooping from his 
lips, was tossing the remnants of a sandwich to a circle of excited hens. He 
presented a picture of bored indolence, of innocent preoccupation. It was almost 
too well done. 
Assured of a witness for the defense, he greeted the woman with a smile. "Why 
can't I do it?" he taunted. 
She ran close to him and laid her hands on his arm. Her eyes were fixed steadily 
on his. "Because," she whispered, "the man who shot that girl-is your 
brother-in-law, Ham Cutler!" 
For what seemed a long time Wharton stood looking down into the eyes of the 
woman, and the eyes never faltered. Later he recalled that in the sudden silence 
many noises disturbed the lazy hush of the Indian-summer afternoon: the rush of 
a motor-car on the Boston Road, the tinkle of the piano and the voice of the 
youth with the drugged eyes singing, "And you'll wear a simple gingham gown," 
from the yard below the cluck- cluck of the chickens and the cooing of pigeons. 
His first thought was of his sister and of her children, and of what this bomb, 
hurled from the clouds, would mean to her. He thought of Cutler, at the height 
of his power and usefulness, by this one disreputable act dragged into the mire, 
of what disaster it might bring to the party, to himself. 
If, as the woman invited, he helped to "hush it up," and Tammany learned the 
truth, it would make short work of him. It would say, for the murderer of Banf 
he had one law and for the rich brother-in-law, who had tried to kill the girl 
he deceived, another. But before he gave voice to his thoughts he recognized 
them as springing only from panic. They were of a part with the acts of men 
driven by sudden fear, and of which acts in their sane moments they would be 
incapable. 
The shock of the woman's words had unsettled his traditions. Not only was he 
condemning a man unheard, but a man who, though he might dislike him, he had for 
years, for his private virtues, trusted and admired. The panic passed and with a 
confident smile he shook his head. 
"I don't believe you," he said quietly. 
The manner of the woman was equally calm, equally assured. 
"Will you see her?" she asked. 
"I'd rather see my brother-in-law," he answered 
The woman handed him a card. 
"Doctor Muir took him to his private hospital," she said. "I loaned them my car 
because it's a limousine. The address is on that card. But," she added, "both 
your brother and Sammy-- that's Sam Muir, the doctor--asked you wouldn't use the 
telephone; they're afraid of a leak." 
Apparently Wharton did not hear her. As though it were "Exhibit A," presented in 
evidence by the defense, he was studying the card she had given him. He stuck it 
in his pocket. 
" I'll go to him at once," he said. 
To restrain or dissuade him, the woman made no sudden move. In level tones she 
said: 
"Your brother-in-law asked especially that you wouldn't do that until you'd 
fixed it with the girl. Your face is too well known. He's afraid some one might 
find out where he is-- and for a day or two no one must know that." 
"This doctor knows it," retorted Wharton. 
The suggestion seemed to strike Mrs. Earle as humorous. For the first time she 
laughed. "Sammy!" she exclaimed. "He's a lobbygow of mine. He's worked for me 
for years. I could send him up the river if I liked. He knows it." Her tone was 
convincing. "They both asked," she continued evenly, "you should keep off until 
the girl is out of the country, and fixed." Wharton frowned thoughtfully. 
And, observing this, the eyes of the woman showed that, so far, toward the 
unfortunate incident the attitude of the district attorney was to her most 
gratifying. Wharton ceased frowning. "How fixed?" he asked. Mrs. Earle shrugged 
her shoulders. 
"Cutler's idea is money," she said; "but, believe me, he's wrong. This girl is a 
vampire. She'll only come back to you for more. She'll keep on threatening to 
tell the wife, to tell the papers. The way to fix her is to throw a scare into 
her. And there's only one man can do that; there's only one man that can hush 
this thing up--that's you." 
"When can I see her?" asked Wharton. 
"Now," said the woman. "I'll bring her." Wharton could not suppress an 
involuntary "Here?" he exclaimed. 
For the shade of a second Mrs. Earle exhibited the slightest evidence of 
embarrassment. 
"My room's in a mess," she explained; "and she's not hurt so much as Sammy said. 
He told her she was in bad just to keep her quiet until you got here." 
Mrs. Earle opened one of the doors leading from the room. "I won't be a minute," 
she said. Quietly she closed the door behind her. 
Upon her disappearance the manner of the district attorney underwent an abrupt 
change. He ran softly to the door opposite the one through which Mrs. Earle had 
passed, and pulled it open. But, if beyond it he expected to find an audience of 
eavesdroppers, he was disappointed. The room was empty, and bore no evidence of 
recent occupation. . He closed the door, and, from the roller-top desk, 
snatching a piece of paper, scribbled upon it hastily. Wrapping the paper around 
a coin, and holding it exposed to view, he showed himself at the window. Below 
him, to an increasing circle of hens and pigeons, Nolan was still scattering 
crumbs. Without withdrawing his gaze from them, the chauffeur nodded. Wharton 
opened his hand and the note fell into the yard. Behind him he heard the murmur 
of voices, the sobs of a woman in pain, and the rattle of a door-knob. As from 
the window he turned quickly, he saw that toward the spot where his note had 
fallen Nolan was tossing the last remnants of his sandwich. 
The girl who entered with Mrs. Earle, leaning on her and supported by her, was 
tall and fair. Around her shoulders her blond hair hung in disorder, and around 
her waist, under the kimono Mrs. Earle had thrown about her, were wrapped many 
layers of bandages. The girl moved unsteadily and sank into a chair. 
In a hostile tone Mrs. Earle addressed her. 
"Rose," she said, "this is the district attorney." To him she added: "She calls 
herself Rose Gerard." 
One hand the girl held close against her side, with the other she brushed back 
the hair from her forehead. From half-closed eyes she stared at Wharton 
defiantly. 
"Well," she challenged, what about it?" 
Wharton seated himself in front of the roller-top desk. 
"Are you strong enough to tell me?" he asked. 
His tone was kind, and this the girl seemed to resent. 
"Don't you worry," she sneered, " I'm strong enough. Strong enough to tell all I 
know--to you, and to the papers, and to a jury--until I get justice." She 
clinched her free hand and feebly shook it at him. " THAT'S what I'm going to 
get," she cried, her voice breaking hysterically, "justice." 
From behind the arm-chair in which the girl half-reclined Mrs. Earle caught the 
eye of the district attorney and shrugged her shoulders. 
"Just what DID happen?" asked Wharton. 
Apparently with an effort the girl pulled herself together. 
"I first met your brother-in-law----" she began. 
Wharton interrupted quietly. 
"Wait!" he said. "You are not talking to me as anybody's brother-in-law, but as 
the district attorney." 
The girl laughed vindictively. 
"I don't wonder you're ashamed of him!" she jeered. 
Again she began: "I first met Ham Cutler last May. He wanted to marry me then. 
He told me he was not a married man." 
As her story unfolded, Wharton did not again interrupt; and speaking quickly, in 
abrupt, broken phrases, the girl brought her narrative to the moment when, as 
she claimed, Cutler had attempted to kill her. At this point a knock at the 
locked door caused both the girl and her audience to start. Wharton looked at 
Mrs. Earle inquiringly, but she shook her head, and with a look at him also of 
inquiry, and of suspicion as well, opened the door. 
With apologies her head waiter presented a letter. 
"For Mr. Wharton," he explained, "from his chauffeur." 
Wharton's annoyance at the interruption was most apparent. "What the devil----" 
he began. 
He read the note rapidly, and with a frown of irritation raised his eyes to Mrs. 
Earle. 
"He wants to go to New Rochelle for an inner tube," he said. "How long would it 
take him to get there and back?" 
The hard and distrustful expression upon the face of Mrs. Earle, which was 
habitual, was now most strongly in evidence. Her eyes searched those of Wharton. 

"Twenty minutes, she said. 
"He can't go," snapped Wharton. 
"Tell him," he directed the waiter, to stay where he is. Tell him I may want to 
go back to the office any minute." He turned eagerly to the girl. "I'm sorry," 
he said. With impatience he crumpled the note into a ball and glanced about him. 
At his feet was a waste-paper basket. Fixed upon him he saw, while pretending 
not to see, the eyes of Mrs. Earle burning with suspicion. If he destroyed the 
note, he knew suspicion would become certainty. Without an instant of 
hesitation, carelessly he tossed it intact into the waste- paper basket. Toward 
Rose Gerard he swung the revolving chair. 
"Go on, Please," he commanded. 
The girl had now reached the climax of her story, but the eyes of Mrs. Earle 
betrayed the fact that her thoughts were elsewhere. With an intense and hungry 
longing, they were concentrated upon her own waste-paper basket. 
The voice of the girl in anger and defiance recalled Mrs. Earle to the business 
of the moment. 
"He tried to kill me," shouted Miss Rose. "And his shooting himself in the 
shoulder was a bluff. THAT'S my story; that's the story I'm going to tell the 
judge "--her voice soared shrilly -- "that's the story that's going to send your 
brother-in-law to Sing Sing!" 
For the first time Mrs. Earle contributed to the general conversation. 
"You talk like a fish," she said. 
The girl turned upon her savagely. 
"If he don't like the way I talk," she cried, "he can come across!" 
Mrs. Earle exclaimed in horror. Virtuously her hands were raised in protest. 
"Like hell he will!" she said. "You can't pull that under my roof!" Wharton 
looked disturbed. 
"Come across?" he asked. 
"Come across?" mimicked the girl. "Send me abroad and keep me there. And I'll 
swear it was an accident. Twenty-five thousand, that's all I want. Cutler told 
me he was going to make you governor. He can't make you governor if he's in Sing 
Sing, can he? Ain't it worth twenty-five thousand to you to be governor? Come 
on," she jeered, "kick in!" 
With a grave but untroubled voice Wharton addressed Mrs. Earle. 
"May I use your telephone?" he asked. He did not wait for her consent, but from 
the desk lifted the hand telephone. 
"Spring, three one hundred!" he said. He sat with his legs comfortably crossed, 
the stand of the instrument balanced on his knee, his eyes gazing meditatively 
at the yellow tree- tops. 
If with apprehension both women started, if the girl thrust herself forward, and 
by the hand of Mrs. Earle was dragged back, he did not appear to know it. 
"Police headquarters?" they heard him ask. "I want to speak to the commissioner. 
This is the district attorney" 
In the pause that followed, as though to torment her, the pain, in her side 
apparently turned, for the girl screamed sharply. 
"Be still!" commanded the older woman. Breathless, across the top of the 
arm-chair, she was leaning forward. Upon the man at the telephone her eyes were 
fixed in fascination. 
"Commissioner," said the district attorney, "this is Wharton speaking. A woman 
has made a charge of attempted murder to me against my brother-in-law, Hamilton 
Cutler. On account of our relationship, I want you to make the arrest. If there 
were any slip, and he got away, it might be said I arranged it. You will find 
him at the Winona apartments on the Southern Boulevard, in the private hospital 
of a Doctor Samuel Muir. Arrest them both. The girl who makes the charge is at 
Kessler's Cafe, on the Boston Post Road, just inside the city line. Arrest her 
too. She tried to blackmail me. I'll appear against her." 
Wharton rose and addressed himself to Mrs. Earle. 
"I'm, sorry," he said, "but I had to do it. You might have known I could not 
hush it up. I am the only man who can't hush it up. The people of New York 
elected me to enforce the laws." Wharton's voice was raised to a loud pitch. It 
seemed unnecessarily loud. It was almost as though he were addressing another 
and more distant audience. "And," he continued, his voice still soaring, "even 
if my own family suffer, even if I suffer, even if I lose political promotion, 
those laws I will enforce!" In the more conventional tone of every-day 
politeness, he added: "May I speak to you outside, Mrs. Earle?" 
But, as in silence that lady descended the stairs, the district attorney seemed 
to have forgotten what it was he wished to say. 
It was not until he had seen his chauffeur arouse himself from apparently deep 
slumber and crank the car that he addressed her. 
"That girl," he said, "had better go back to bed. My men are all around this 
house and, until the police come, will detain her." 
He shook the jewelled fingers of Mrs. Earle warmly. "I thank you," he said; "I 
know you meant well. I know you wanted to help me, but"--he shrugged his 
shoulders--"my duty!" 
As he walked down the driveway to his car his shoulders continued to move. 
But Mrs. Earle did not wait to observe this phenomenon. Rid of his presence, she 
leaped, rather than ran, up the stairs and threw open the door of her office. 
As she entered, two men followed her. One was a young man who held in his hand 
an open note-book, the other was Tim Meehan, of Tammany. The latter greeted her 
with a shout. 
"We heard everything he said " he cried. His voice rose in torment. "An' we 
can't use a word of it! He acted just like we'd oughta knowed he'd act. He's 
HONEST! He's so damned honest he ain't human; he's a -- gilded saint!" 
Mrs. Earle did not heed him. On her knees she was tossing to the floor the 
contents of the waste-paper basket. From them she snatched a piece of crumpled 
paper. 
"Shut up!" she shouted. "Listen! His chauffeur brought him this." In a voice 
that quivered with indignation, that sobbed with anger, she read aloud: 
" 'As directed by your note from the window, I went to the booth and called up 
Mrs. Cutler's house and got herself on the phone. Your brother-in-law lunched at 
home to-day with her and the children and they are now going to the Hippodrome. 
"Stop, look, and listen! Back of the bar I see two men in a room, but they did 
not see me. One is Tim Meehan, the other is a stenographer. He is taking notes. 
Each of them has on the ear-muffs of a dictagraph. Looks like you'd better watch 
your step and not say nothing you don't want Tammany to print.'" The voice of 
Mrs. Earle rose in a shrill shriek. 
"Him--a gilded saint?" she screamed; "you big stiff! He knew he was talking into 
a dictagraph all the time, and he double- crossed us!"