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Anthony Trent, Master Criminal

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<h2>CHAPTER XXIV DEVLIN’S PROMISE</h2> HALF an hour later the stone, reposing in a tin box of cigarettes, was in the mails on the way to Trent’s camp at Kennebago. Mrs. Kinney had instructions to hold all mail and its safety was thus assured. There was nothing more to fear. He wanted very much to know what had happened at Miss Thompson’s apartment and proposed to call after breakfast. But Devlin called first upon him. It was a depressed Devlin. Not indeed a Devlin come to be apologetic, but one less assured. “Well?” said Trent affably, “come to search me again. I’m getting a little tired of it, my good man.” “I want to know why you pass here under the name of Maltby of Chicago when your name is Trent and you live in New York City.” “A private detective has no right to demand any such knowledge. Last night you took upon yourself powers and authority which we could have resisted if we chose. You had no legal right to search us. I submitted first because I had nothing to fear and secondly to see if the others had the stone. I didn’t think they had.” “What do you know about the stone?” Devlin demanded suspiciously. “Everything except just where it is at this present moment. Between you and me, Devlin, I’m here after it too. I was at Groton, as can easily be proved, on the day after the murder.” Trent smiled as a curious look passed over the detective’s face, “I’m going to disappoint you. I passed the day and night in Boston when the murder was done. I have just as much use for that ten thousand dollars as you have. By the way I suppose you got the stone?” “Like hell I did,” Devlin cried red in the face, “I got this.” He showed Trent the piece of cut glass which had hung in his room for so long. “Glass, that’s what it is.” Devlin leaned forward and looked hard into Anthony Trent’s eyes. “You know more about this than you pretend. It ain’t accident that brings you around when two such stones as Dangerfield’s ruby and this here emerald get stolen. There’s something more to it than that. There’s something mighty queer about you, Mister Anthony Trent, and I’m going to see what it is.” Trent looked at him for a moment and then smiled. It was the tolerant smile of the superior. It angered Devlin. His red face grew redder still. “My good Devlin,” said Trent, “stupidity such as yours may be a good armor but it is a poor diving suit.” “Talk sense,” Devlin commanded. “If you wish,” Trent agreed easily. “I mean that you haven’t the mental equipment to live up to your desires. You have the impertinence to think you can outwit me. I’m your superior in everything. Mentally, morally and physically I can beat you and in your heart you know it. I think I’ve stood about as much from you as I care to take from any man. For a time you amused me. At Sunset Park you thought you were being very subtle searching my room with your twin ass, O’Brien, but I was laughing at you.” “You was drunk,” said Devlin slowly. “That’s how gin takes me,” said the other, “I see the ludicrous in men and things. Just listen to me. My past and present bears investigation. You looked me up and you know.” Trent drew his bow at a venture. “You found that out, didn’t you?” “Because I couldn’t find anything against you doesn’t prove you’re what you pretend,” Devlin admitted grudgingly. “The point I wish to make is this,” Anthony Trent said incisively, “I’m tired of you. You bore me. You weary me. You exasperate me. I am willing to overlook your blundering stupidity this time but if you worry me again I shall go after you so hard you’ll wish you’d never heard my name. I’ve got money and that means influence. You’ve neither. Think it over. Now get out.” Devlin looked at him doubtfully. There was a strong personal animus against Anthony Trent. He hated anything suave, smiling or polite. And when these qualities were in conjunction with physical prowess they spelled danger. But for the moment nothing was to be gained by violence. Devlin essayed a genial air. “We all of us make mistakes,” he admitted. “I’m willing to say it. I’m sorry I’ve gone wrong over this case.” He held out a big short fingered hand. “Good-bye.” “What’s the use?” Trent demanded. “You will always be my enemy and I never shake hands with an enemy if I can get out of it.” Devlin was at a loss for the moment. It had been his experience that when he offered a hand it was grasped gladly, eagerly. There was something in this harder unsmiling Trent which impressed him against his will. “They shake hands before the last round of a prize fight,” he reminded the other man. “So they do,” said Trent smiling a little, and offered his hand.   Two weeks later he was compelled to concede that Devlin’s pertinacity sometimes won its reward. Devlin had always been an advocate of the third degree. Together with some operatives from his agency he staged a gruesome drama into which hysterical and frightened the drink-enervated Norah Thompson was dragged. Under the pitiless cross-examination of these hard men she broke down. Andrew Apthorpe’s murderer was found. But the triumph was incomplete. She convinced them that although the emerald had been hers for a time, of its destination or present ownership she had no idea. She went into penal servitude for life with a newspaper notoriety that made the Takowaja emerald the most famous stone in existence. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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