money Uncle Martin collected was my
price--my price!"

He was standing before his friends, rigid and white in rage. Neither man
answered him.

"And because the moral sense of the community was in the hearts and
heads of the women of the community," he went on, "those who are
upholding the immoral compact between business and politics had to
attack the womanhood of the town--and Genevieve's peril is my share in
the shame. By God, I'm through!"

CHAPTER XIII. BY MARY AUSTIN

Close on Young Remington's groan of utter disillusionment came a sound
from the street, formless and clumsy, but brought to a sharp climax with
the crash of breaking glass.

Even through the closed window which Penfield Evans hastily threw up,
there was an obvious quality to the disturbance which revealed its
character even before they had grasped its import.

The street was still full of morning shadows, with here and there
a dancing glimmer on the cobbles of the still level sun, caught on
swinging dinner pails as the loosely assorted crowd drifted toward shop
and factory.

In many of the windows half-drawn blinds marked where spruce window
trimmers added last touches to masterpieces created overnight, but
directly opposite nothing screened the offense of the Voiceless Speech,
which continued to display its accusing questions to the passer-by.

Clean through the plate-glass front a stone had crashed, leaving a heap
of shining splinters, on either side of which a score of men and boys
loosely clustered, while further down a ripple of disturbance marked
where the thrower of the stone had just vanished into some recognized
port of safety.

It was a clumsy crowd, half-hearted, moved chiefly by a cruel delight
in destruction for its own sake, and giving voice at intervals to
coarse comment of which the wittiest penetrated through a stream
of profanity, like one of those same splinters of glass, to the
consciousness of at least two of the three men who hung listening in the
window above:

"To hell with the----suffragists!"

At the same moment another stone hurled through the break sent the
Voiceless Speech toppling; it lay crumpled in a pathetic feminine sort
of heap, subject to ribald laughter, but Penny Evans' involuntary cry
of protest was cut off by his partner's hand on his shoulder. "They're
Noonan's men, Penny; it's a put-up job."

George had marked some of the crowd at the meetings Noonan had arranged
for him, and the last to