"What you are doing is blackmail, isn't it?" she asked disdainfully.
"Call it what you please," he said. "Suit yourself, Elena. But there is a bunch of manuscript in the Tattler's office which goes into print the moment you play any of your catty games on me. Understand?"
She said, very pale: "Will you not tell me—give me some hint about what you have written?"
He laughed: "Better question your own memory, little lady. Maybe it isn't about you and Desboro at all; maybe it's something else."
"There was nothing else."
"There was—me!"
"You?"
"Sure," he said cheerfully. "What happened in Philadelphia, if put skillfully before any jury, would finish you."
"Nothing happened! And you know it!" she exclaimed, revolted.