eyed him steadily for a space. "You look on the square," she said abruptly; then she added with an ominous look: "If there's no money, you know what'll happen!"
David shrugged his shoulders. "I told you I know nothing."
She was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. David studied her face, in preparation for the coming conflict. He saw that appeal to her better parts would avail nothing. He could guess that she needed money; it was plainly her nature, when roused, to spare nothing to gain her desire. And if defeated, she could be vindictive, malevolent.
In her inward struggle between caution and desire for money, greed had the assistance of her pride; for a woman living upon her attraction for men, is by nature vain of her conquests. Also, David's physical appearance was an element in the contest. Her quick bold eyes, looking him over, noted that he was tall and straight, square of shoulder, good-looking.
Greed and its allies won. "Well, if you want to know, come back," she said.
David resumed his seat. She stood thinking a moment, then went to a writing-desk. For all his suspense, David was aware she was trying to display her graces and her gown. She rustled to his chair with the unhinged halves of a gold locket in her hand.
"Suppose we begin here," she said, handing him one half of the locket. "Perhaps you'll recognise it – though that was taken in eighty-five."
David did recognise it. It was Lillian Drew at twenty. The face was fresh and spirited, and had in an exceptional measure the sort of beauty admired in the front row of a musical-comedy chorus. It was not a bad face; had the girl's previous ten years been otherwise, the present Lillian Drew would have been a very different woman; but the face showed plainly that she had gone too far for any but an extraordinary power or experience to turn her about. It was bold, striking, luring – a face of strong appeal to man's baser half – telling of a girl who would make advances if the man held back.
David felt that she waited for praise. "It's a handsome face."
"You're not the first to say so," she returned, proudly.
She let him gaze at the picture a full minute, keenly watching his face for her beauty's effect. Then she continued:
"That is the picture of a girl in Boston. And this" – a jewelled hand gave him the locket's other half – "is a young man in Harvard."
David knew whose likeness was in the locket, yet something snapped sharply within him when he looked upon the boyish face of Morton at twenty-one. It was the snap of suspense. His fear was now certainty.
"She probably wouldn't have suited you" – the tone declared she certainly would – "but Phil Morton certainly had it bad for four or five months."
David forced himself to his duty – to search this relationship to its limits. "And then – he broke it off?" he asked, with a sudden desire to make her smart.
"No man ever threw me down," she returned sharply, her cheeks flushing. "I got tired of him. A woman soon gets tired of a mere boy like that. And he was repenting about a third of the time, and preaching to me about reforming myself. To live with a man like that – it's not living. I dropped him."
"But all this was fifteen years ago," David said, calm by an effort. "What has that to do with your note?"
She sank into a chair before him, and ran the tip of her tongue between her thin lips. She leaned back luxuriously, clasped her be-ringed hands behind her head, and regarded him amusedly from beneath her pencilled eye-lashes.
"A woman comes to New York about four months ago. She was – well, things hadn't been going very well with her. After a month she learns a man is in town she had once – temporarily married. She hasn't heard anything about him for fifteen years. He is a minister, and has a reputation. She has some letters he wrote her while they had been – such good friends. She guesses he would just as soon the letters should not be made public. She has a talk with him; she guessed right… Now you understand?"
David leaned forward, his face pale. "You mean Morton has been paying you – to keep still?"
She laughed softly. She was enjoying this display of her power. "In the last three months he has paid me the trifling sum of five thousand."
David stared at her.
"And he's going to pay me a lot more, or – the letters!"
His head sank before her bright, triumphant eyes, and he was silent. He was a confusion of thoughts and emotions, amid which only one thought was distinct – to protect Morton if he could. He tried to push all else from his mind and think of this alone.
A minute or more passed. Then he looked up. His face was still pale, but set and hard. "You are mistaken in at least one point," he said.
"And that?"
"About the money you are going to get. There'll be no more."
"Why not?" she asked with amused superiority.
"Because the letters are valueless." He watched her sharply to see the effect of his next words. "Philip Morton was buried two days ago."
Her hands fell from her head and she stood up, suddenly white. "It's a lie!"
"He was buried two days ago," David repeated.
Her colour came back, and she sneered. "It's a lie. You're trying to trick me."
David rose, drew out a handful of clippings he had cut from the newspapers, and silently held them toward her. She glanced at a headline, and her face went pale again. She snatched the clippings, read one half through, then flung them all from her, and abruptly turned about – as David guessed, to hide from him the show of her loss.
In a few moments she wheeled around, wearing a defiant smile. "Then I shall make the letters public!"
"What good will that do you? Think of all those people – "
"What do I care for those people!" she cried. "I'll let them see what their saint was like!"
David stepped squarely before her; his tall form towered above her, his dark eyes gleamed into hers. "You shall do nothing of the kind," he said harshly. "You are going to turn over the letters to me."
She did not give back a step. "Oh, I am, am I!" she sneered. At this close range, penetrating the violet perfume, he caught a new odour – brandy.
"You certainly are! You're guilty of the crime of blackmail. You've confessed it to me, and I have your letter demanding money – there's proof enough. The punishment is years in prison. Give me those letters, or I'll have a policeman here in five minutes."
She was shaken, but she forced another sneer. "To take me to court is the quickest way to make the letters public," she returned. "You're bluffing."
He was, to an extent – but he knew his bluff was a strong one. "If you keep them, you will give them out," he went on grimly. "Between your making them public and going unharmed, and their coming out in the course of the trial that will send you to prison, I choose the latter. Morton is dead; the letters can't hurt him now. And I'd like to see you suffer. The letters, or prison – take your choice!"
She slowly drew back from him, and her look of defiance gave place to fear. She stared without speaking at his square face, fierce with determination – at his roused, dominating masculinity.
"Which
