"Oh, he'd be only too glad to marry me if he could. He can't. Poor Max has got a wife somewhere—"
"Max? It's Veltman!" cried Hal. "The dirty scoundrel."
"Oh, don't blame Max," said the girl wearily. "It isn't his fault. After you threw me down"—Hal winced—"I started to run wild. It's the Hardscrabbler in me. I took to drinking and running around, and Max pulled me out of it, and I went to live with him. I didn't care. Nothing mattered, anyway. And I wasn't afraid of anything like this happening, because I thought the pills made it all safe."
Here Dr. Surtaine reappeared. "I've got a detective coming that I can trust."
"A detective?" cried Hal. "Oh, Dad—"
"You keep out of this," retorted his father, in a tone such as his son had never heard from him before. "I guess you've done enough. The question is"—he continued as regardless of Milly as if she had been deaf—"how to hush her up."
"You've had your chance to hush me up," said the girl sullenly.
"Any money within reason—"
"I don't want your money."
"Listen here, then. You tried to murder me. That's ten years in State's prison. Now, if ever I hear of you opening your mouth about this, I'll send you up. I guess that will keep you quiet. Now, then, what's your answer?"