"Suppose I accede to your unreasonable request, Kathleen," he said, stopping before her. "Will you do something for me?"
"Yes," huskily.
"Then get from your father the specifications and drawings of his latest invention for me."
As if she had not heard aright, Kathleen stared at him.
"Wh-what is it you ask?" she stammered.
"The plans of your father's latest invention," patiently. "I do not mean the camera."
"Either you or I are mad," she looked at him dazedly. "Do you realize that my father would not give me those plans—that I should have to steal them."
"Expediency knows no law," he muttered, not meeting her eyes. "Call it borrowing." Kathleen shrank back appalled.
"Good God! That you should be so base!" she cried. "For more than forty-eight hours I have closed my eyes to reason; deluded myself that you acted from temporary mental aberration—that Sinclair Spencer's death was unpremeditated. My impulse was to help—to save. Ah, you wooed me well this winter." Her voice broke and she drew a long quivering breath. "It is a pitiful thing to kill a woman's love. Some day, perhaps, I shall be grateful to you. Go!"
He flinched at the scorn in her voice, but stood his ground doggedly. "Not until I get the drawings and specifications of the invention," he answered.