She rose and faced him tearfully.
“It’s the truth!” she declared. “He’s my brother—the only one of my family that’s left. You wouldn’t have me refuse to help—”
“Help him! Turn a thousand dollars of your savings over to a worthless whelp that’s got into jail! How do you know he’s your brother?—a man that waits all these years before he shows himself and then plumps down on you for a thousand dollars! I tell you it’s blackmail, blackmail! And you hide all this from me just as though I hadn’t any right to know what kind o’ trouble you get mixed up in! Ain’t you got sense enough to know you’re touchin’ bottom when you give up money that way? What’s he threatened you with? You tell me everything there is to know about this, and I’ll find out mighty quick whether a contemptible scoundrel can come to my house and carry away a thousand dollars!”
Farley glared at her unpityingly while she told her story, which seemed preposterously weak when reduced to plain terms. She sobbingly admitted her fear of newspaper notoriety, her wish to shield him from the shame of her connection with a man awaiting trial for murder. There was no mercy in his eyes; he was outraged that she had again deceived him.
“Afraid o’ havin’ your name in the papers, were you? Just as though blackmailers didn’t always use that club on the fools they rob! And how many times do you think a man like that will come back, now he knows you’re easy—now you’ve gone into business with him?”
The maid knocked at the door and announced Eaton, but Farley gave no heed.
“Payin’ blackmail! You’ve got yourself into a nice mess! And after all I’ve done to protect you and make a decent woman of you, you’re scared to death of havin’ some of your relations go to jail—just as though you hadn’t turned your back on the whole set when we brought you here and gave you our name. That ought to have made you respectable, if it didn’t! Afraid of newspapers, afraid of jackleg lawyers! It’s the rottenest case of blackmail I ever heard! And here I’ve been proud to think that we’d pulled you out of the river mud and made a high-minded woman of you, that could stand up with any girl anywhere!”
She waited listening to his deep breaths, watching his tremulous hands; and then without attempting to answer his indictment, she said meekly:—
“Of course, it was a mistake, papa. I ought to have told you about it; but it’s my trouble—you must remember that! The shame of the exposure would be something I’d have to bear alone; that was the way I looked at it; and I didn’t want you to have the worry of it when you were just beginning to get well.”
His thoughts had wandered away from her, playing about her offense in its practical and legal aspects. When she ventured to remind him of Eaton’s presence in the house, he made no reply. The silence became intolerable and she stole from the room.