Carton had sprung to his feet at the direct charge and was facing
Ogleby.
"Is that true—about the Montmartre?" he demanded.
Ogleby fairly sputtered. "She lies," he almost hissed.
"Just a moment," interrupted Dorgan. "What has that to do with Miss
Blackwell, anyhow?"
Sybil Seymour did not pause.
"It is true," she reiterated. "This is what it has to do with Betty Blackwell. Listen. He is the man who led me on, who would have done the same to Betty Blackwell. I yielded, but she fought. They could not conquer her—neither by drugs nor drink, nor by clothes, nor a good time, nor force. I saw it all in the Montmartre and the beauty parlour—all."
"Lies—all lies," hissed Ogleby, beside himself with anger.
"No, no," cried Sybil. "I do not lie. Mr. Carton and this good woman, Miss Kendall, who is working for him, are the first people I have seen since you, Martin Ogleby, brought me to the Montmartre, who have ever given me a chance to become again what I was before you and your friends got me."
"Have a care, young woman," interrupted Dorgan, recovering himself as she proceeded. "There are laws and—"
"I don't care a rap about laws such as yours. As for gangs—that was what you were going to say—I'd snap my fingers in the face of Ike the Dropper himself if he were here. You could kill me, but I would tell the truth.