To Him That Hath. Scott Leroy
the man held back.
David felt that she waited for praise. "It's a handsome face."
"You're not the first to say so," she returned, proudly.
She let him gaze at the picture a full minute, keenly watching his face for her beauty's effect. Then she continued:
"That is the picture of a girl in Boston. And this" – a jewelled hand gave him the locket's other half – "is a young man in Harvard."
David knew whose likeness was in the locket, yet something snapped sharply within him when he looked upon the boyish face of Morton at twenty-one. It was the snap of suspense. His fear was now certainty.
"She probably wouldn't have suited you" – the tone declared she certainly would – "but Phil Morton certainly had it bad for four or five months."
David forced himself to his duty – to search this relationship to its limits. "And then – he broke it off?" he asked, with a sudden desire to make her smart.
"No man ever threw me down," she returned sharply, her cheeks flushing. "I got tired of him. A woman soon gets tired of a mere boy like that. And he was repenting about a third of the time, and preaching to me about reforming myself. To live with a man like that – it's not living. I dropped him."
"But all this was fifteen years ago," David said, calm by an effort. "What has that to do with your note?"
She sank into a chair before him, and ran the tip of her tongue between her thin lips. She leaned back luxuriously, clasped her be-ringed hands behind her head, and regarded him amusedly from beneath her pencilled eye-lashes.
"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."
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.
One thought, that at first had been merely a vague wonder, grew greater and greater till it fairly pressed all else from David's mind: where had Philip got the five thousand dollars for which Lillian Drew had sold him three months' silence? David knew that Philip Morton had not a penny of private fortune, only his income as head of the Mission; and that of this income not a dollar had been laid by, so open had been his purse to the hand of distress. He could not have borrowed the money in the usual manner, for he had no security to give; and sums such as this are not blindly loaned with mere friendship as the pawn.
David entered Philip's study with this new dread pulsing through him. It was his duty to his friend to know the truth, and besides, his suspense