"A woman comes to New York about four months ago. She was--well, things hadn't been going very well with her. After a month she learns a man is in town she had once--temporarily married. She hasn't heard anything about him for fifteen years. He is a minister, and has a reputation. She has some letters he wrote her while they had been--such good friends. She guesses he would just as soon the letters should not be made public. She has a talk with him; she guessed right.... Now you understand?" David leaned forward, his face pale. "You mean Morton has been paying you--to keep still?" She laughed softly. She was enjoying this display of her power. "In the last three months he has paid me the trifling sum of five thousand." David stared at her. "And he's going to pay me a lot more, or--the letters!" His head sank before her bright, triumphant eyes, and he was silent. He was a confusion of thoughts and emotions, amid which only one thought was distinct--to protect Morton if he could. He tried to push all else from his mind and think of this alone. A minute or more passed. Then he looked up. His face was still pale, but set and hard. "You are mistaken in at least one point," he said. "And that?" "About the money you are going to get. There'll be no more." "Why not?" she asked with amused superiority. "Because the letters are valueless." He watched her sharply to see the effect of his next words. "Philip Morton was buried two days ago." Her hands fell from her head and she stood up, suddenly white. "It's a lie!" "He was buried two days ago," David repeated. Her colour came back, and she sneered. "It's a lie. You're trying to trick me." David rose, drew out a handful of clippings he had cut from the newspapers, and silently held them toward her. She glanced at a headline, and her face went pale again. She snatched the clippings, read one half through, then flung them all from her, and abruptly turned about--as David guessed, to hide from him the show of her loss. In a few moments she wheeled around, wearing a defiant smile. "Then I shall make the letters public!" "What good will that do you? Think of all those people----" "What do I care for those people!" she cried. "I'll let them see what their saint was like!" David stepped squarely before her; his tall form towered above her, his dark eyes gleamed into hers. "You shall do nothing of the kind," he said harshly. "You are going to turn over the letters to me." She did not give back a step. "Oh, I am, am I!" she sneered. At this close range, penetrating the violet perfume, he caught a new odour--brandy. "You certainly are! You're guilty of the crime of blackmail. You've confessed it to me, and I have your letter demanding money--there's proof enough. The punishment is years in prison. Give me those letters, or I'll have a policeman here in five minutes."