"Is Jim Godfrey there?" I asked.
"I'll see; hold the line."
A moment later I heard Godfrey's voice ask: "Hello? What is it?"
"It's Lester, Godfrey," I said. "I wish you would run over to the
office and see me this morning."
"All right," he replied; "I'll be over right away."
I hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief. If anybody could see
through the puzzle, I knew that Godfrey could. I had met him first
in connection with the Holladay case, when he had deserted the force
temporarily to accept a place as star reporter on the yellowest of the
dailies; but he had resigned that position in a moment of pique, and
the department had promptly gobbled him up again.
Fifteen minutes later his card was brought in to me, and I had him
shown in at once.
"How are you, Lester?" he said, and I can't tell you what a tonic
there was in the grip of his hand. "What's wrong this morning?"
"You know Mrs. Magnus?" I asked.
"Widow of Peter? Yes; I've heard of her."
"Somebody's trying to do her out of fifty thousand dollars," I said,
and tossed the note across to him. "What do you make of that?"
"Tell me about it," he said, and studied it carefully, while I
repeated the story Mrs. Magnus had told me.
"And now what do you make of it?" I asked again.
"I think the answer's blackmail," he said quietly.
"But that note?"
"A fake."
"And the story?"
"Also a fake."
"You mean she didn't see him write it?"
"Look here, Lester," demanded Godfrey impatiently, "you don't mean to
say that you believe any such rot?"
"No," I answered; "I don't see how I can believe it--and yet, what did
she tell it for?"
"She had to tell something.
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