"Don't believe he exactly knows," said Stagers. "Something or other to
get him clear of hemp."

"But what stuff!" I replied. "How can I help him? What possible
influence could I exert?"

"Can't say," answered Stagers, imperturbably. "File has a notion you're
'most cunning enough for anything. Best try something, doc."

"And what if I won't do it?" said I. "What does it matter to me if the
rascal swings or no?"

"Keep cool, doc," returned Stagers. "I'm only agent in this here
business. My principal, that's File, he says: 'Tell Sanderaft to find
some way to get me clear. Once out, I give him ten thousand dollars. If
he don't turn up something that will suit, I'll blow about that coroner
business and Lou Wilson, and break him up generally.'"

"You don't mean," said I, in a cold sweat--"you don't mean that, if I
can't do this impossible thing, he will inform on me?"

"Just so," returned Stagers. "Got a cigar, doc?"

I only half heard him. What a frightful position! I had been leading a
happy and an increasingly profitable life--no scrapes and no dangers;
and here, on a sudden, I had presented to me the alternative of saving
a wretch from the gallows or of spending unlimited years in a State
penitentiary. As for the money, it became as dead leaves for this once
only in my life. My brain seemed to be spinning round. I grew weak all
over.