“Your remark is insulting,” she said. “I do not know the object of this visit, but whatever it is, that remark must be withdrawn before it can proceed.” “It is the last remark you should desire withdrawn, madam,” he said, with a calm significance of utterance; “for it is true.” She rose to dismiss him--rose haughtily and uncompromisingly, as if she had not the slightest suspicion of the drift of his purpose. There was a dangerous gleam in her eye; one that should have been a warning to the man, telling him to shield himself in some way and not carry out the threatened purpose. To this woman, that purpose was a cause of almost mastering terror, but this the will behind it controlled, leaving her seemingly strong to master the situation. He was compelled to decide quickly, yet with knowledge that anything that was tinctured with apology was a weakening of his position. “I am not implying guilt on their part,” he said; “nor am I speaking of knowledge that would be proof in court, but of that moral knowledge which makes one certain in mind, without being able to give evidence to justify such certainty. To make a public accusation based on such knowledge, would be to do the greatest wrong.” She remained standing, seemingly weighing this remark. In reality she was feeling the keen disappointment of having lost excuse for terminating the interview which she had supposed was hers. “I am averse,” she said, “to discussing questions bearing on this murder. I condemn the crime. Beyond that, it has no interest to me.” She knew that in thus speaking she was weakening the position she had taken at first. It was the natural sequence of having the ground cut from under her by Cranston’s half-apology. The other eagerly seized the opening presented: “Until Mr. Wing’s murderer is discovered and punished, nothing and no one in any way connected with his past will be spared. I have said that I know who is his mother.” She had resumed her seat and again had herself under full control, but with some loss of vantage. “What one man has discovered,” she said, “any other man may discover. The mere fact that it can be discovered, is the end of secrecy.” “There are innumerable things that can be discovered,” he said, “compared with the number of people who can discover them. There are hundreds who would like to know this one matter, but among them not more than one who knows how to find it out. If his mouth is closed, the secret is as safe as if it did not exist.” “The mere knowledge that a secret exists is revelation,” she answered. “A man who will sell himself once, simply waits a higher bidder to sell himself again.” “Possibly, if in concealing the identity of this woman, one concealed a fact bearing upon the discovery of the murderer. I can assure you that her identity has no bearing whatever upon the other question.” “Then why not let it drop into the oblivion from which you have dragged it?”