"What do I care for that?" he
cried contemptuously. He tossed the words at her over his
shoulder. "I put lots of people in jail myself that are better
than I am. Only, they won't play the game." He halted, and
turned on her. "Now, you're not playing the game. This is a mean
business, taking money from silly girls and old men. You're too
good for that." He halted at the table and stood facing her.
"I've got two sisters uptown," he said. He spoke commandingly,
peremptorily. "And tomorrow I am going to take you to see them.
And we fellow townsmen," he smiled at her appealingly, "will
talk this over, and we'll make you come back to your own
people."
For a moment the two regarded each other. Then the girl answered
firmly, but with a slight hoarseness in her voice, and in a tone
hardly louder than a whisper:
"You know I can't do that!"
"I don't!" blustered Winthrop. "Why not?"
"Because," said the girl steadily, "of what I did in Geneva." As
though the answer was the one he had feared, the man exclaimed
sharply, rebelliously.
"Nonsense!" he cried. "You didn't know what you were doing. No
decent person would consider that."
"They do," said the girl, "they are the very ones who do. And --
it's been in the papers. Everybody in Geneva knows it. And here
too. And whenever I try to get away from this" -- she stretched
out her hands to include the room about her -- "Someone tells!
Five times, now. She leaned forward appealingly, not as though
asking pity for herself, but as wishing him to see her point of
view.
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