The poor girl, overwrought by the strain of the confession that laid bare her very soul, sank back in her chair and cried, as Miss Kendall gently tried to soothe her.
Dorgan and Ogleby listened sullenly. Never in their lives had they dreamed of such a situation as this.
There was no air of triumph about Kennedy now over the confession, which with the aid of Miss Kendall, he had staged so effectively. Rather it was a spirit of earnestness, of retribution, justice.
"You know all this?" he inquired gently of the girl.
"I saw it," she said simply, raising her bowed head.
Dorgan had been doing some quick thinking. He leaned over and whispered quickly to Ogleby.
"Why was she not discovered then when these detectives broke into the private house—an act which they themselves will have to answer for when the time comes?" demanded Ogleby.
It seemed as if the mere sound of his voice roused the girl.
"Because it was dangerous to keep her there any longer," she replied. "I heard the talk about the hotel, the rumour that someone was using this new French detective scheme. I heard them blame the District Attorney—who was clever enough to have others working on the case whom you did not know. While you were watching his officers, Mr. Kennedy and Miss Kendall were gathering evidence almost under your very eyes.
"But you were panic-stricken. You and your agents wanted to remove the danger of discovery. Dr. Harris and Marie Margot had a plan which you grasped at eagerly. There was Ike the Dropper, that scoundrel who lives on women. Between them you would spirit her away. You were glad to have them do it, little realizing that, with every step, they had you involved deeper and worse. You forgot everything, all honour and manhood in your panic; you were ready to consent, to urge any course that would relieve you—and you have taken the course that involves you worse than any other."