"And ain't you always coming to places in your practice or profession, or whatever you call your dirty work, when a few bank-bills spread out will cover a lot of iniquity that poverty would expose?"
"You bet I do, but this ain't a job for buying off."
"Who said it was? You get through it, though, without so much quacking, and you'll find it will be worth your while."
The detective went for a stroll through the hall. The door of the music-room was closed. If he could have looked inside, he would have seen the half-fainting daughter of the man he was in search of, lying on one of the green velvet benches.
Her husband was on his knees beside her. He had come to the room just in time to catch her as she fell from the piano stool. Now she had recovered and was whispering passionately, "Justin,—if I should ever grow weak and nervous, and ask you to tell me anything you might know to the prejudice of my father, you would not do so?"
"No, darling; no, no."
"I would not really wish to hear it. I could not bear it. He was so good, so perfect. I never found any fault in him. You liked him, Justin?"
"Yes, my own wife, I did."
"And Justin, if ever we should have a little child, or if I should have to die and leave it, you would never tell it anything against the father of its mother?"
"Never, never, God helping me. I will guard his reputation as I would my own; but do not speak of leaving me. I cannot bear it," and gathering her exhausted figure in his arms, he carried her to the open window.