"It is your turn, Madame," he said. "I lose gracefully," answered Mrs. Markham, "yet if Mr. Norcross will think very carefully, he may realize that I am not all a loser." Rosalie crossed the room to Dr. Blake. "Here, you take this thing," she said, extending the revolver, "it makes me nervous, an' I told you at the start there wasn't no use of it." And now, something had clicked in Norcross again. His mouth had closed like a vise, light had come back to his eyes; he was again the Norcross of the street. "You're a devil," he said, "but you're a marvelously clever woman--" "So clever," responded Mrs. Markham in dulcet tones, "that I intend never to worry about finances again--by your leave, Mr. Norcross." "That means blackmail, I suppose," said Norcross. "Now, Mr. Norcross, I beg of you," protested Mrs. Markham, "I have _never_ used harsh names for unpleasant truths with you! Do me the same courtesy. You will agree, I think, that the Norcross interests would suffer if people knew that Robert H. Norcross was running to spirit mediums--my business is little appreciated. The newspapers, Mr. Norcross--" "Would any newspaper believe you?" asked Norcross. "An admirable method," responded Mrs. Markham, "an admirable method of getting these people before the public as witnesses"--her gesture indicated Dr. Blake and Rosalie--"would be to sue for custody of my niece, whom this young man intends, I believe, to take away tonight. Certain unusual features of this case would charm the newspapers." Rosalie shook Blake's shoulder. "Doctor!" she cried, "can't you see what she's aiming at? She's trying to drag us into her blackmailing. She's tryin' to make this look like a plant." She whirled on Norcross. "Listen, Mr. Norcross. I'll tell you what this was done for! Do you know a youngish lookin' man, smooth-shaven, neat dresser, gray eyes, about forty-five, got something to do with Wall Street, wears one of them little twisted-up red and white society buttons in his buttonhole, has a trick of holding his chin between his fingers--so--when he's thinkin'? Because _he_ started it. He's the nigger in your woodpile. He came here a week before you ever saw Mrs. Markham, bringin' the notes about Helen Whitton--the dope that she's been feedin' you. If you'll put that together with what the spirit--she--Miss Markham, told you tonight about declarin' dividends--" "Mrs. Granger," interrupted Mrs. Markham, "you are a shrewd woman, but you carry your deductions a little far--" "Deductions, your grandmother!" retorted Rosalie Le Grange, "To think how close you come to foolin' even _me_ that's played this game, girl and woman, for twenty-five years! If I hadn't caught you so anxious to stop that little girl from seein' that you kept Practical Methods of Hypnotism' hid behind the bookcase, I'd have gone away from here believin' that she was deep in the mud as you was in the mire. You certainly sprung a new one on me!"