"I can handle it all right," said Kimbarton slowly, "provided the price is O. K. One hundred apiece isn't enough for them letters."
"How much, then?" asked the young man angrily. "Look here; don't think you can play me for a mark. I'm not a rich man and while I am willing to do the right thing, I won't be held up. What's your price?"
"Listen to me, now," said Kimbarton, his face showing the confidence he felt in his ability to handle the situation. "In the first place, you come into my office as if you owned it, tell me where to head in at, and call me a crook without any license. If I'm a crook that's my own business. I haven't got you skinned any, I reckon. You talk about blackmail like you was pretty well used to it, and you're trying to hand this girl a package because she throws you down and hooks up with another guy. Well, the letters will cost you one hundred dollars apiece, all right. That's five hundred. Callin' me a crook is five hundred more, and five hundred more for necessary expenses is a grand total of fifteen hundred. Take it or leave it."
"Right," said Van Der Cynck, shaking with passion and getting to his feet. "I'll leave it, you dirty little shyster."
"One moment, please," grinned Kimbarton malignantly; "that word 'shyster' will cost you another hundred. Yes, I know," as the young man started to speak, "there are plenty of other agencies that would be glad to handle this, but you see I happen to be Kenally," and he burst out laughing at the look of blank amazement on the face of his visitor.
Van Der Cynck came back and sat down. "What's your price?" he asked helplessly, "and how the devil do you happen to be Kenally and Kimbarton, too?"
"Oh!" remarked the detective airily, "I just traveled under that name for a while, liking the sound of it, so to speak. As to the price, I told you, sixteen hundred."
"Ridiculous!" cried Van Der Cynck. He rose to his feet again. "I will give you a thousand dollars for the letters, and that's the ultimate limit. If you insist, I'll apologize for calling you a crook and a shyster, but I won't give more than a thousand for the letters, and that's final."
He had his hand on the door knob when the detective spoke. "You win," he said; "a thousand goes. Wait!" He went into the room marked private, and for several minutes the visitor waited. Kimbarton presently returned with a packet of letters in his hand and laid them on the table: "C. O. D." he remarked and looked expectantly at Van Der Cynck.
"I want to examine them first," was the answer; "that's a little thin. First you say you are Kenally, when I know you are Kimbarton, then you want to sell me those letters you have there for a thousand dollars when I don't know whether they're the ones I want or not." He held out his hand. "Give them to me. If they are what you say they are, you'll get your money immediately. Come!"
He looked expectantly at the detective, still holding out his hand; and, after a moment's hesitation, Kimbarton placed the letters in it.
Rapidly Van Der Cynck ran
