Florence Dunbar.
I had gone to work in the office of The Little Corporal, and had delivered the message, of the nature of which I knew nothing. The Colonel tore the envelope, grew hot with rage, struck at me with his cane, and shattered the Ninth Commandment with a cannon shot of profanity.
I wondered what it was all about, and promptly decided that the profession of journalism was too full of peril for me.
“Ha, blackmailer!” he shouted. “Child of iniquity, I will not slay you until you have taken my reply to your mistress, who is a disgrace to the name of woman. Say to her that if she publishes the article, a proof of which I have just read, I shall kill her, so help me God!”
Yes, it was a kind of blackmail, but how noble and how absolutely feminine.
When I returned to the Colonel's office I knew what I was doing. It was with a note which read as follows:
Dear Sir,—This is to advise you, first, that you cannot change my purpose with cheap and vulgar threats; second, that resignation would be an easier means of retirement, and probably less painful, than a shooting-match with me.
Yours truly,
Florence Dunbar.
The old bluff mill of his brain, which had won many lawsuits and jack pots for the Colonel, had failed him for once. Its goods, the quality of which had never been disputed, were now declared cheap and vulgar.