The Best Policy

“That is something that does not concern me,” said the money-lender carelessly.

The confidence and carelessness of the reply recalled Murray to a consciousness of the situation. He had a sharp and hard game to play with a clever and unscrupulous man.

“How much did you loan him?” he demanded.

“The note is for a thousand dollars,” was the prompt reply.

“How much did you loan him, Shylock?” repeated Murray, and the money-lender was startled out of his complacent confidence.

“I didn’t come here to be insulted!” he exclaimed. “I hold the policy and the assignment of it as security. If you can’t talk business, as man to man, I’ll quit and leave the matter to a lawyer.”

“If you put one foot outside of that door,” retorted Murray, “we’ll fight this matter to a finish, Shylock, and we’ll get some points on your business methods. Come back and sit down.”

The money-lender had made a pretense of leaving, but he paused and met the cold, hard look of Murray. Then he came back.

“Of course, we take risks,” he said apologetically.

“Mighty few,” commented Murray uncompromisingly.

“If a man has security that is good at the bank he won’t come to us,” persisted the money-lender. “We have to protect ourselves for the additional risk.”

“By getting a man to put himself in the shadow of the penitentiary,” said Murray. “I know all about you people, Shylock. How much did you loan?”

The money-lender was angered almost to the point of defiance – but not quite. Loan-sharks do not easily reach that point: the very nature of their business makes it inadvisable, except when some poor devil is in their power.

“Oh, of course, if it’s a personal matter with you,” he said, “I might scale it a little. The note is for a thousand dollars, with various incidental charges that make it now a thousand and eighty dollars. I might knock off a hundred from that.”

“How much did you loan him, Shylock?” repeated Murray.

“Nine hundred dollars,” answered the money-lender in desperation.

“Shylock,” said Murray with cold deliberation, “I know you people. If I didn’t, I might ask to see the canceled check, but that would prove nothing. You give a check for the full amount, but the man has to put up a cash bonus when he gets it. How much did you loan him?”

“I’ll stand on the note,” declared the money-lender angrily. “I know my rights, and I can be as ugly as you. The note is signed by himself and his wife, and you’ll have a hard time going back of it.”

Murray touched a bell and a boy answered.

“Ask Mrs. Vincent to step in here,” said Murray.

The money-lender was plainly disconcerted, but he was not unaccustomed to hard battles, so he nerved himself to bluff the thing through, it being too late to do anything else.

“Mrs. Vincent,” said Murray, when the woman appeared, “I have found the insurance policy.”

“Where is it?” she asked eagerly.

“Mr. Shylock,” – with a motion toward the money-lender, – “holds it.”

“Give it to me, Mr. Shylock,” demanded Mrs. Vincent, who was not a woman to grasp the bitter insult of the name, and her innocent repetition of it added to the anger of the man. Still, the habit of never letting his personal feelings interfere with business was strong within him.

“I must be paid first,” he said.

“Paid!” she cried. “What is there to pay? The insurance money is mine!”

“I hold a note,” insisted the money-lender.

“What’s that to me?” she retorted. “Do you think I’m going to pay his debts? I didn’t contract them; I wasn’t with him; he left me years ago! Let her look out for the debts! Give me the policy or I’ll have you arrested!”

The woman was wildly and covetously excited: she would not rest easy until the actual possession of the money assured her that there was no possibility of a slip. The money-lender, too, was anxious. Murray alone seemed to be taking the matter quietly, for these two were now playing the game for him, although the details required his close attention. A very slight miscalculation might carry it beyond his control.

“It’s assigned to me,” said the money-lender with a pretense of confidence. “I have your signature.”

“It’s a lie!” she cried.

“Oh, no,” interrupted Murray quietly; “it’s a forgery.”

“That woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Vincent. “She stole my name as well as my husband!”

“That man,” corrected Murray. “He did it for the woman who did so much for him. He would have given her all, if he could.”

Murray had reason to know that it was the nurse, but he lied cheerfully in what he considered a good cause. They were getting to the critical and dangerous point in the game he was playing: the widow would be merciless to the nurse.

“It’s a forgery, anyway!” declared Mrs. Vincent. “I won’t pay a cent!”

“I’ll sue,” said the money-lender threateningly.

“Well, sue!” she cried. “What do I care? You can’t get anything on a forgery. I guess I know that much.”

“It will make a scandal,” said the money-lender insinuatingly.

“Let it,” she retorted angrily.

They were again making points for Murray, each showing the weakness of the other’s position, so Murray merely watched and waited.

“If there is another woman in the case,” persisted the money-lender, who had been quick to grasp the significance of the previous remarks, “the shame and disgrace – ”

“What do I care?” she interrupted. “The disgrace is for her.”

“And for him,” said the money-lender. “I can make him out a forger.”

“It won’t give you the money,” she argued.

“It will make you the widow of a criminal,” he threatened. “How would you like the disgrace of that? And the other things! If I have to go to court the whole scandal will be revealed and the very name you bear will be a shame! The widow of a forger! A woman who could not hold her husband! An object of pitying contempt, so small that she would not pay an honest debt to protect the name that is hers!” In his anxiety not to lose, the money-lender became almost eloquent in picturing possible conditions. No other sentiment or emotion could have given him this power. And he saw that the effect was not lost upon the woman, for no one knew better than she the harm the exploitation of the whole miserable story would do. Even a blameless woman can not entirely escape the obloquy that attaches to the name she bears, and there had been enough already to make it difficult for Mrs. Vincent to retain a position on the fringe of society. “Of course,” he went on, “if you’d rather stand this than pay, there is nothing for me to do but leave and put the matter in the hands of a lawyer.”

“Wait a minute, Shylock,” interrupted Murray. “Mrs. Vincent is going to pay – something.”

“Pay money that he got for her!” she exclaimed with sudden resentfulness. “She’s the forger, anyway; I know it!”

“Did you ever see her, Shylock?” asked Murray.