"Oh! He is!" cried Roger hoarsely. "Then I will talk to this young man!" But she put out a restraining hand:
"Father! Don't try to fight this suit!"
"You watch me!" he snarled. Tears showed in her eyes:
"Think! Oh, please! Think what you're doing! Have you ever seen a divorce-court—here, in New York? Do you know what it's like? What it can be like?"
"Yes," Roger panted. He did know, and the picture came vividly into his mind—a mass of eager devouring eyes fixed on a girl in a witness chair. "To-morrow I see a lawyer!" he said.
"No—you won't do that, my dear," Deborah told him sadly. "Laura's husband has got proofs."
Her father looked up slowly and glared into his daughter's face.
"I've seen them myself," she added. "And Laura has admitted it, too."
Still for a moment he stared at her. Then slowly he settled back in his chair, his eyes dropped in their sockets, and very carefully, with a hand which was trembling visibly, he lifted his cigar to his lips. It had gone nearly out, but he drew on it hard until it began to glow again.
"Well," he asked simply, "what shall we do?"