But even as he said the word, he had an uprush of courage; he would get a lawyer, and shut her up! That's what you do when anybody blackmails you. Perfectly simple. "A lawyer will shut her up!" It was a hideous mess, and he had no money to spend on lawyers; but it would never get out--the newspapers couldn't get hold of it--because a lawyer would shut her up! Though, probably, he'd have to give her some money? How much would he have to give her? And how much would he have to pay the lawyer? He had a crazy vision of Lily's attaching his salary. He imagined a dialogue with his employer: "A case of blackmail, sir." "Don't worry about it, Curtis; we'll shut her up." This brought an instant's warm sense of safety, which as instantly vanished--and again he was walking down the road, with Edith beside him, talking, talking... Eleanor would have to know... No! She wouldn't! He could keep it a secret. But he'd have to tell Mr. Houghton. Then Mrs. Houghton would know! Again a wave of nausea swept over him, and he shuddered; then said to himself: "No: Uncle Henry's white. He won't even tell her." Edith was asking him something; he said, "Yes," entirely at random--and was at once involved in a snarl of other questions, and other random answers. Under his breath he thought, despairingly, "Won't she ever stop talking! ... Edith, I'll give you fifty cents if you'll keep quiet." Edith was willing enough to be quiet; "But," she added, practically, "would you mind giving me the fifty cents now, Maurice? You always tear off to Eleanor the minute you get home, and I'm afraid you'll forget it." He put his hand in his pocket and produced the half dollar. "Anything to keep you still!" he said. "You don't mind if I talk to Johnny?" He didn't answer; at that moment he was not aware of her existence, still less Johnny's, for a frightful thought had stabbed him: Suppose it wasn't blackmail? _Suppose Lily had told the truth_? Suppose "it" was his? "She can't prove it--she can't prove it!" he said, aloud. "Prove what? Who can't?" Edith said, interested. Maurice didn't hear her. Suddenly he felt too sick to follow his own thought, and go to the bottom of things; he was afraid to touch the bottom! He made a desperate effort to keep on the surface of his terror by saying: "It's all Eleanor's fault. Damnation! Her idiotic jealousy drove me out of the house that Sunday afternoon!" At this moment Johnny Bennett and Edith broke into shrieks of laughter. "Say, Maurice," Johnny began-- "Can't you children be quiet for five minutes?" Maurice said. Johnny whistled and, behind his spectacles, made big eyes at Edith. "What's _he_ got on his little chest?" Johnny inquired. But Maurice was deaf to sarcasm.... "It all goes back to Eleanor!" Under the chatter of the other two, it was easier to say this than to say, "Is Lily telling the truth?" It was easier to hate Eleanor than to think about Lily. And, hating, he said again, aloud, the single agonized word.