In spite of his nervousness he strode forward with the air of a man accustomed to being obeyed, to having everything done for him merely because he, Burke Collins, could afford to pay for it and it was his right.  He seemed to know whom he was seeking, for he immediately singled out O’Connor.

“This is terrible, terrible,” he whispered hoarsely.  “No, no, no, I don’t want to see her.  I can’t, not yet.  You know I thought the world of that poor little girl.  Only,” and here the innate selfishness of the man cropped out, “only I called to ask you that nothing of my connection with her be given out.  You understand?  Spare nothing to get at the truth.  Employ the best men you have.  Get outside help if necessary.  I’ll pay for anything, anything.  Perhaps I can use some influence for you some day, too.  But, you understand—­the scandal, you know.  Not a word to the newspapers.”

At another time I feel sure that O’Connor would have succumbed.  Collins was not without a great deal of political influence, and even a first deputy may be “broke” by a man with influence.  But now here was Kennedy, and he wished to appear in the best light.

He looked at Craig.  “Let me introduce Professor Kennedy,” he said.  “I’ve already called him in.”

“Very happy to have the pleasure of meeting you,” said Collins, grasping Kennedy’s hand warmly.  “I hope you will take me as your client in this case.  I’ll pay handsomely.  I’ve always had a great admiration for your work, and I’ve heard a great deal about it.”

Kennedy is, if anything, as impervious to blandishment as a stone, as the Blarney Stone is itself, for instance.  “On one condition,” he replied slowly, “and that is that I go ahead exactly as if I were employed by the city itself to get at the truth.”

Collins bit his lip.  It was evident that he was not accustomed to being met in this independent spirit.  “Very well,” he answered at last.  “O’Connor has called you in.  Work for him and—­well, you know, if you need anything just draw on me for it.  Only if you can, keep me out of it.  I’ll tell everything I can to help you—­ but not to the newspapers.”

He beckoned us outside.  “Those people in there,” he nodded his head back in the direction of the Millefleurs, “do you suspect them?  By George, it does look badly for them, doesn’t it, when you come to think of it?  Well, now, you see, I’m frank and confidential about my relations with Blan—­er—­Miss Blaisdell.  I was at a big dinner with her last night with a party of friends.  I suppose she came here to get straightened out.  I hadn’t been able to get her on the wire to-day, but at the theatre when I called up they told me what had happened, and I came right over here.  Now please remember, do everything, anything but create a scandal.  You realise what that would mean for me.”

Kennedy said nothing.  He simply laid down on the desk, piece by piece, the torn letter which he had picked up from the basket, and beside it he spread out the reply which Blanche had written.