"No!"
"For the sake of justice and—"
Sara interrupted the man. She had crossed to Mr. Wrandall's side, a queer light in her eyes. Her hand fell upon his trembling old arm and he felt a thrill pass from her warm, strong fingers into the very core of his body.
"Mr. Smith, will you give me an off-hand estimate of what your services amount to in dollars and cents up to date?"
"You don't owe me anything, Mrs. Wrandall," said Smith, flushing a dull red.
"You came here to give me a chance, Mr. Smith, feeling that I was actually implicated. You had a price fixed in your mind. You still have your doubts, in spite of what Mr. Wrandall says. It occurred to you that it would be worth considerable to me if the investigation went no farther. You realised that you could not have brought this crime home to me, because you could not have found REAL, satisfying evidence. But you could have gone to the newspapers with your suspicions, and you could have made one-half the world believe that an innocent person was guilty of a foul crime. The world loves its sensations. It would have gloated over the little you could have given it, and it would have damned me unheard. I owe you something for sparing me a fate so wretched as that. Your price: What is it?"
"Sara!" cried Mr. Wrandall, aghast.
"My dear Mrs. Wrandall," cried Carroll, blinking his eyes, "you are not thinking of—"
"I am thinking of paying Mr. Smith his price," said Sara calmly.
"Why, damn it all," roared Carroll, "you countenance his ridiculous assertions—"