Drummond shook his head. Already he had learned what he had come to
learn. She did not have the money.

"No," he replied positively, adding, by way of inserting the knife and
turning it around, "I shall have to turn the letters over to him
to-day."

She drew herself up. At least she could fight back.

"But you can't prove anything," she cut in quickly.

"Can't I?" he returned. "The letters don't speak for themselves, do
they? You don't realize that this interview helps to prove it, do you?
An innocent woman wouldn't have considered my offer, much less plead
with me. Bah! can't prove anything. Why, it's all in plain black and
white!"

Drummond flicked the ashes from his cigar into the fireplace as he rose
to go. At the door he turned for one parting shot.

"I have all the evidence I need," he concluded. "I've got the goods on
you. To-night it will be locked in his safe--documentary evidence. If
you should change your mind--you can reach me at his office. Call under
an assumed name--Mrs. Green, perhaps."

He was gone, with a mocking smile at the parting shot.

Anita Douglas saw it all now. Things had not been going fast enough to
suit her new friend, Mrs. Murray. So, after a time, she had begun to
tell of her own escapades and to try to get Anita to admit that she had
had similar adventures. It was a favorite device of detectives, working
under the new psychological method by use of the law of suggestion.

She had introduced herself, had found out about Lynn Munro, and in some
way, after he had left town, had got the letters. Was he in the plot,
too? She could not believe it.

Suddenly the thought came to her that the blackmailers might give her
husband material that would look very black if a suit for divorce came
up in court.

What if he were able to cut off her little allowance? She trembled at
the thought of being thus cast adrift on the world.

Anita Douglas did not know which way to turn. In her dilemma she
thought only of Constance. She hurried to her.

"It was as you said, a frame-up," she blurted out, as she entered
Constance's apartment, then in the same breath added, "That Mrs. Murray
was just a stool pigeon."

Constance received her sympathetically. She had expected such a visit,
though not so soon.

"Just how much do they--know?" she asked pointedly.

Anita had pressed her hands together nervously. "Really--I confess,"
she murmured, "indiscretions--yes; misconduct--no!"

She spoke the