She was shaken, but she forced another sneer. "To take me to court is the quickest way to make the letters public," she returned. "You're bluffing." He was, to an extent--but he knew his bluff was a strong one. "If you keep them, you will give them out," he went on grimly. "Between your making them public and going unharmed, and their coming out in the course of the trial that will send you to prison, I choose the latter. Morton is dead; the letters can't hurt him now. And I'd like to see you suffer. The letters, or prison--take your choice!" She slowly drew back from him, and her look of defiance gave place to fear. She stared without speaking at his square face, fierce with determination--at his roused, dominating masculinity. "Which is it to be?" She did not move. "You choose prison then. Very well. I'll be back in five minutes." He turned and started to leave the room. "Wait!" He looked round and saw a thoroughly frightened face. "I'll get them." She passed out through the beflowered portieres, and in a few minutes returned with a packet of yellow letters, which she laid in David's hand. "These are all?" he demanded. "Yes." A more experienced investigator might have detected an unnatural note in her voice that would have prompted a further pursuit of his question; but David was satisfied, and did not mark a cunning look as he passed on. "Here's another matter," he said threateningly. "If ever a breath of this comes out, I'll know it comes from you, and up you'll go for blackmail. Understand?" Now that danger was over her boldness began to flow back into her. "I do," she said lightly. He left her standing amid her crumpled, forgotten train. As he was passing into the hall, she called to him: "Hold on!" He turned about. She looked at him with fear, effrontery, admiration. "You're all right!" she cried. "You're a real man!" * * * * * As David came into the street, his masterful bearing fell from him like a loosened garment. There was no disbelieving the prideful revelation of Lillian Drew--and as he walked on he found himself breathing, "Thank God for Philip's death!" Had Philip lived, with that woman dangling him at the precipitous edge of exposure, life would have been only misery and fear--and sooner or later she would have given him a push and over he would have gone. Death comes too late to some men for their best fame, and to some too early. To Philip Morton it had come in the nick of time.