"You mean ... your rightful share in what your series of articles has brought the Eaton-Lathrup publications in cash so far? Or will bring them within the next few months? Or merely what you _believe_ should be your rightful share, putting aside for the moment all legal considerations. You signed a contract giving the concern all rights, didn't you?" "Yes, but she gave me to believe--" "Just what did she give you to believe?" "That she was prepared to be very generous about the entire matter if the articles should make a great deal of money for the magazines. She wouldn't hold me to the strict letter of the contract. She'd waive the 'all rights' clause. A great many magazines do that. It's taken for granted--" "I see. But are you sure about that? Don't you think you should have made sure before signing the contract, if you had any doubts at all? There's nothing in the least unethical about a magazine group buying all rights, you know. It's their privilege under the law." "But she knew how impractical most writers are! She knew how--well, yes, even infantile they can be about such things. And she made me feel that she was my friend, that she'd never dream of taking advantage of me in any way." "But she didn't, if you signed a contract giving the concern all rights, unqualifiedly, with no strings attached." "And I still say she did! She led me on, deceived me. She--" He was on his feet again now and some of the mildness, the constrained look, the look that _didn't_ make him look like a man who might be capable of resorting to violence under stress, was gone from his eyes. "She led me on, I tell you. There was something about her, something I mistook for great generosity and warmth--" Fenton looked at him steadily for a moment, carefully weighing what he was about to say. He asked the question in a quiet tone, but he knew that it was emotionally charged, and strategically just the right question to put to the man at that particular moment. "Were you her lover, Willard?" Willard flushed scarlet and lowered his eyes. "Were you?" Willard compressed his lips and said nothing, but a look of torment had come into his eyes. "You slept with her, didn't you, Willard?" "Yes, damn you!" There was a look of naked agony in the frail man's eyes now, and the words came out choked with rage. Then, quite suddenly, he was trembling violently, clenching his fists like a man deranged. "Why don't you ask me if she was good in bed? Or if I was? Haven't you a spark of decency in you? I've heard of the third degree but a question like that is worse. Oh, damn you to hell!"