“No she was not!”
“A connection then. You had charge of her.”
“Well!”
“You want to know all about her, and being proud as Lucifer—as an angel, I mean, won’t ask. I know it isn’t because you begrudge the money—all is, you won’t even yourself with me and talk the thing over sociably.”
“Sociably! girl, you forget yourself.”
“No I don’t; it’s you that won’t forget yourself. This minute you are dying to ask all I know, and that proud heart won’t allow you to say the word. Give back the book. The reporters who were so anxious to find out her history will be glad to get it.”
“Reporters—reporters,” faltered Mrs. Judson, aghast with apprehension. “What does this mean? What has that wretched girl done? tell me everything you know. You are right, it is not money that I consider. Tell me.”
“Well, how much are you ready to hand over for the book,—remember, only for the book, the rest I throw in.”
“Set your own price; I cannot discuss that with you.”
“Well, supposing we say two hundred, and the place.”