“If you have come here to talk to me about marrying her—”
“She won't marry you,” Willy Cameron said steadily. “That's not the point I want your own acknowledgment of responsibility, that's all.”
Akers was puzzled, suspicious, and yet relieved. He lighted a cigarette and over the match stared at the other man's quiet face.
“No!” he said suddenly. “I'm damned if I'll take the responsibility. She knew her way around long before I ever saw her. Ask her. She can't lie about it. I can produce other men to prove what I say. I played around with her, but I don't know whose child that is, and I don't believe she does.”
“I think you are lying.”
“All right. But I can produce the goods.”
Willy Cameron went very pale. His hands were clenched again, and Akers eyed him warily.
“None of that,” he cautioned. “I don't know what interest you've got in this, and I don't give a God-damn. But you'd better not try any funny business with me.”
Willy Cameron smiled. Much the sort of smile he had worn during the rioting.
“I don't like to soil my hands on you,” he said, “but I don't mind telling you that any man who ruins a girl's life and then tries to get out of it by defaming her, is a skunk.”