Even then her own eyes, never wavering, could find in him not enough to determine her. The desire to get at the truth, whatever the truth might be, was plying its angry whip upon her shoulders. When Mary had spoken, Marian had received the intelligence as innocently imparted fact. But now the man before her gave nothing that her inexperience could set down as a sign of what she considered a great sin. "Wesley," she began, leaning towards him, "the girl that told me this told it inadvertently. More than that, she did not even know that I had ever heard of you. She did not want to hurt you: she was grateful to you, because you had rescued her." His intuition, then, had not failed him: it was Violet. "Why," he smiled, his heart heavy with the fear of losing Marian's love, his lips still sparring for a more open lead, "I am afraid I'm no knight-errant, Marian, to go about rescuing damsels in distress." But he did not like the sound of the phrase, and, seeing that she liked it no better, he explained: "You surely remember how I feel about these poor women." "But she said that your politics brought you into touch with the worst sort of them." Marian paused there to give him another chance, but his only protest was: "Not my politics. The duties of my profession, before I was elected a magistrate, sometimes made it necessary to defend such women. You must have known that. There was no dishonor there." "And my informant added," continued Marian, "that you used your political influence to gain their friendship, perhaps even to protect them, and"--she felt the depths before her; her cheeks went hot; her brown eyes filled--"and certainly to--to----" She faltered. He felt it and looked up with anger in his eyes. "To what?" he demanded. She clasped her damp hands tight. "To live with them," she said. Though he had expected the implication, he had hardly expected so close an approach to the specific, and therefore the start to which it behooved him to give way was not altogether disingenuous. "Marian!" he cried. She bent her head. "Do you believe that?" he asked. The accusation uttered, sick uncertainty gripped and tossed her again. "I don't know what to believe." "But how can you think I would be capable of such things? The girl lied." Her judgment swayed dizzily. Between word and word she was now for and now against him. "I can't think of any motive that this girl might have to lie," she said. "How do you know what motive she has?" returned Dyker, realizing in what good stead his training as a pleader of bad cases might stand him. "How do you know what political enemies of mine may have sent her to you? You say that, on her own confession, she is a vile woman----" "I did not say that." "You said she charged herself with being part of this alleged business. You confessed that you were disappointed in her personally. What possible credit can be given to the story of a woman that begins by admitting such abominations?"