price for it is three hundred dollars for Miss Branch. I don't want the money myself—I won't even handle it. Is the price agreeable to you?"
The answer was, "Yes, I will send a man up at once."
I said, "It is distinctly understood that you are to publish nothing whatever about this matter unless the sum of three hundred dollars is paid to Miss Branch?"
"Yes. Where is she, so that I can pay the money to her?"
"I will give you the name of a man who knows where she is. This man will take the money and will bring you her receipt. I wish to give you the name of this man in confidence, for he does not wish his name brought into the case in any way."
The answer was: "Put the name of the man in a sealed envelope and give it to the reporter, who will give it to me. I will personally see that the money is sent to him, and then will forget his name."
"Very well," I replied, and added, "I have written a thousand-word article discussing the case. I will give you this article along with the rest of the information. But you must not print either this article or a single word about this matter unless you pay three hundred dollars to Miss Branch. You understand that distinctly?"
He replied, "I understand. A man will be up to see you in half an hour."
Fifteen minutes after the conversation there came a telephone-call; a voice, sharp and determined, at the other end of the wire, "Is Miss Branch there?" My wife was answering the phone and she beckoned to me. We stared at each other, uncertain what to answer or what to think.
"Miss Branch?" said my wife. "No! Certainly Miss Branch is not here."
"Then where is she?" came the next question, imperative and urgent.
"I do not know," said my wife. "Who are you?"
"I have been sent by Sheriff Kinnie, of Sullivan County Jail, who has an important message to be delivered to Miss Branch at once."
Said I (taking the phone): "Have you credentials from Sheriff Kinnie?"
"No," was the reply, "I have not."
"Then," I said, "you cannot see Miss Branch."
