“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 men “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?