uences.

"You have done the Catholics of this city harm that will last a long
time, Colette," said he. "That vile book of yours ... you ought to be
hung for it. It will live to do its miserable work when you are in hell
howling. I really don't know why I should be merciful to you. Did you
ever show mercy to any one? The court would do this for you and for us:
the facts, figures, and personages of your career would be dragged into
the light of day ... what a background that would be ... not a bad
company either ... not a fact would escape ... you would be painted as
you are. I'll not tell you what you are, but I know that you would die
of your own colors ... you would go to jail, and rot there ... every
time you came out I'd have a new charge on which to send you back. Your
infamy would be printed by columns in the papers ... and the dogs would
be put on your trail ... ah, there's the rub ... if the law let you go
free, what a meal you'd make for the people who think you ought to be
torn limb from limb, and who would do it with joy. I really do not
understand why I offer you an alternative. Perhaps it's for the sake of
this man who loves you ... for the great service he did me."

He paused to decide this point, while she gazed like a fascinated bird.

"What I want is this really," he went on. "I want to let the city see
just what tools Livingstone, your employer, is willing to do his dirty
work with. I want this committee to assemble with pomp and circumstance
... those are the right words ... and to see you, in your very cleverest
way, act the parts through which you fooled the wise. I want them to
hear you say in that sweetest of voices, how you lied to them to get
their dollars ... how you lied about us, your own people, threw mud on
us, as Curran says, to get their dollars ... how your life, and your
book, and your lectures, are all lies ... invented and printed because
the crowd that devoured them were eager to believe us the horrible
creatures you described. When you have done that, you can go free. No
one will know your husband, or your name, or your profession. I don't
see why you hesitate. I don't know why I should offer you this chance.
When Birmingham hears your story he will not approve of my action. But
if you agree to follow my directions to the letter I'll promise that the
law will not seize you."

What could she do but accept his terms, protesting that death was
preferable? The risk of losing her just