"Morton's letters!" He stared at her. "You gave them to me."
"Part of them." She laughed quietly, and ran the tip of her tongue between her lips. "Oh, you were easy!"
David choked back an impulse to lay vengeful hands upon her. "You're lying!" he said fiercely.
"Oh, I am, am I?"
She slipped a hand into the pocket of her skirt, paused in the action, and her baiting smile turned to a look of threat. "If you try to grab them, if you make a move toward me, I'll scream, people will rush in here, and the whole thing will come out at once! You understand?"
The tormenting smile returned, and she slowly drew from her skirt a packet of yellow letters held together by an elastic band. She removed the band, drew one sheet from its envelope, and held it up before David's eyes.
"You needn't bother about reading it. You've read one bunch—and they're all alike. But look at the handwriting. I guess you know that, don't you? And look at the signature: 'Always with love—Phil.' That's one letter—there are fourteen more. And look at this photograph of the two of us together, taken while he was in Harvard. And look at this letter written five years ago, saying he'd send me five hundred the next day—and at this letter, written two days before he died, saying he hadn't another cent and couldn't get it. I guess you're satisfied."
She coolly snapped the band over the bundle and returned the letters to her pocket. "I guess I'll get some money, won't I?"
"I see," David remarked steadily, "that I must again call your attention to the fact that there are such things as laws against blackmailing."
She looked at him, amusedly. "That worked once—but it won't work twice. Arrest me for blackmail, and there'll be a trial, and at it the truth about Morton will come out. You told me five years ago you didn't care if the truth did come out—but I know a lot better now!" She laughed. "Please send for a policeman!"