those papers in my hands a hundred thousand dollars."
"A hundred thousand dollars!" repeated Trafford, for once at least showing his surprise.
"Yes," answered Matthewson, a strange hopefulness coming into his eyes; "I'll give you that sum for the papers this minute."
"I wish I had 'em," said Trafford, in a tone half regretful and half as if he was groping in his memory for something that bore on the matter.
"Why, haven't you got them?" demanded Matthewson, between incredulity and fear.
"I!" exclaimed Trafford. "I got them! I've never even seen them. The man who fired the shot that killed Wing has got those papers. Find him, and you're on the track of the papers."
Matthewson grew pale with revulsion of feeling. That Trafford had the papers, he had had no question. He believed that all this had been merely leading up to an offer and he had shaped his course, as he thought, shrewdly, to the naming of a sum which would make the man eager to deal. Instead, he was told in a tone that carried conviction,
