“If you do, you’ll not only ruin yourself, but you’ll ruin some more of us, too,” he said in consternation. “Why, yesterday, when Mr. Morton found me in your apartment at the Mordona, I had the closest sort of shave. And now, if you try to keep on with your plan, and the certain explosion comes, don’t you see that Morton will learn that while retained by him I’ve also been sitting in the game with you? Don’t you see you’ll ruin me?” “So that’s why you’ve come to me with these new propositions?” she said keenly--“to save your own skin?” “Yes,” he said defiantly, “though those new propositions, the last one at least, were always part of the plan I’d had for you.” They were now standing face to face, she almost half a head the taller. “Peter Loveman,” she said slowly, distinctly, “despite your skin, and my skin, I’m going straight ahead.” “What!” he exclaimed, astounded; and then: “You can’t! There’s that explosion, due in a day or so--and after that you’ll be nothing but smoke and dam’ thin smoke!” “I have my own idea of how to do it, and I believe I can succeed. Anyhow, I’m going straight ahead.” “No, you’re not!” he said sharply. In a moment the usually amiable face had become grim with menace--and few faces could be more truly menacing. “If you won’t play this game with me, Mary Regan, then this minute I cut you out of it and play the game alone.” “Just what does that mean?” “It means that I’ll not get as much out of it as if we worked together--but I’ll _get it, and get it certain_. It means that in half an hour Mr. Morton will have my detectives’ report telling of the discovery of his son’s secret marriage and telling all about who the wife is. And it means that I’ll handle the suit for separation--and that I’ll collect for both services. And it also means that I’ll deny, and deny successfully, any statement that you may make as to any relations between us. I guess that fixes you!” “So, you’d do that!” she breathed, staring at him. Then, without another word, she crossed to her desk and took up the telephone. “Central, please give me Broad 9000.” In a moment Loveman was across the room and had seized her arm. “That’s Mr. Morton’s office!” he exclaimed. “What’re you up to?” Giving him no heed, she spoke into the instrument. “Is this Broad 9000?... Please tell Mr. Morton, Senior, that Mrs. Grayson wishes to speak to him.” One of Loveman’s hands closed with a swift, spasmodic grip over the telephone’s mouthpiece, the other hand fiercely gripped Mary’s arm. “What’s this you’re up to?” he demanded huskily. She gave him a calm, defiant look. For a moment they stood so, silent, the telephone clutched by both of them.