t
he felt pleased to have forgiven her so early in the struggle. He had
persecuted her, treated her with violence, and printed her history for
the scornful pleasure of the world; he had come to offer her the
alternative of public shame or public trial and jail; yet she had a
patient smile for him, a dignified submission that touched him. After
all, he thought with emotion, she is of the same nature with myself; a
poor castaway from conventional life playing one part or another by
caprice, for gain or sport or notoriety; only the devil has entered into
her, while I have been lucky enough to cast my lot with the exorcists of
the race. He almost regretted his duty.

"I have taken possession of your office and papers, Colette," said he
with the dignity of the master. "I dismissed the office-boy with his
wages, and notified the owner that you would need the rooms no more
after the end of the month."

"Thanks," she murmured with downcast eyes.

"I am ready now to lay before you the conditions----"

"Are you going to send me to jail?"

"I leave that to you," he answered softly. "You must withdraw your book
from circulation. You must get an injunction from the courts to restrain
the publishers, if they won't stop printing at your request, and you
must bring suit against them for your share of the profits. I want them
to be exposed. My lawyer is at your service for such work."

"This for the beginning?" she said in despair.

"You must write for me a confession next, describing your career, and
the parts which you played in this city; also naming your accomplices,
your supporters, and what money they put up for your enterprise."

"You will find all that in my papers."

"Is Mr. Livingstone's name among your papers?"

"He was the ringleader. Of course."

"Finally you must appear before a committee of gentlemen at the Fifth
Avenue Hotel, and show how you disguised yourself for the three parts of
Edith Conyngham, Sister Claire, and the Brand of the gospel-hall."

She burst out crying then, looking from one man to the other with the
tears streaming down her lovely face. Curran squirmed in anguish. Arthur
studied her with interest. Who could tell when she was not acting?

"Ah, you wretch! I am bad. Sometimes I can't bear myself. But you are
worse, utterly without heart. You think I don't feel my position."

Her sobbing touched him by its pathos and its cleverness.

"You are beyond feeling, but you _must_ talk about fee