"Yes," she answered. "Do you want Colonel Tredennis to hear about the letter, Richard, or does he know already?"
"He knows everything," answered Richard, "as every one else will to-morrow or the day after."
For a moment his despair made him so reckless that he did not make an effort at defence. He flung himself into a chair and gave up to the misery of the hour.
"You knew," said Bertha, looking toward Tredennis, "and did not tell me. Yes, I forgot,"—with a bitter little smile,—"there was something you warned me of once and I would not listen, and perhaps you thought I would not listen now. If you know, will you tell me what was in the letter? I do not know yet, and I want to hear it put into words. It was money—or an offer of money? Tell me, if you please."
"It was money," said Richard, defiantly. "And there are others who have taken the same thing peacefully enough."
"And I was to give it to him because—because he was a little more difficult, and seemed to be my friend. Do all female lobbyists do such things, Richard, or was I honored with a special service?"
"It is not the first time it has been done," he answered, "and it won't be the last."
"It is the first time I have done it," she returned, "and it will be the last. The—risk is too great."
Her voice shook a little, but it was perfectly cold; and, though her eyes were dilated, such fire as might have been in them was quenched by some light to which it would have been hard to give a name.
"I do not mean the risk to myself," she said to Richard. "That I do not count. I meant risk to you. When he burned the letter he said, 'Tell them I did it for your sake, and that it is safer for them that I did it.'"