“But you were panic-stricken.  You and your agents wanted to remove the danger of discovery.  Dr. Harris and Marie Margot had a plan which you grasped at eagerly.  There was Ike the Dropper, that scoundrel who lives on women.  Between them you would spirit her away.  You were glad to have them do it, little realizing that, with every step, they had you involved deeper and worse.  You forgot everything, all honour and manhood in your panic; you were ready to consent, to urge any course that would relieve you—­and you have taken the course that involves you worse than any other.”

“Who will believe a story like that?” demanded Ogleby.  “What are you—­according to your own confession?  Am I to be charged with everything this gang, as you call it, does?  You are their agent, perhaps working for this blackmailing crew.  But I tell you, I will fight, I will not be blackened by—­”

Sybil laughed, half hysterically.

“Blackened?” she repeated.  “You who would put this thing all off on others who worked for you, who played on your vices and passions, not because you were weak, but because you thought you were above the law!

“You did not care what became of that girl, so long as she was where she could not accuse you.  You left her to that gang, to Ike, to Marie, to Harris.”  She paused a moment, and flashed a quick glance of scorn at him.  “Do you want to know what has become of her, what you are responsible for?

“I will tell you.  They had other ideas than just getting her out of the way of your selfish career.  They are in this life for money.  Betty Blackwell to them was a marketable article, a piece of merchandise in the terrible traffic which they carry on.  If she had been yielding, like the rest of us, she might now be apparently free, yet held by a bondage as powerful and unescapable as if it were of iron, a life from which she could not escape.  But she was not yielding.  They would break her.  Perhaps you have tried to ease your conscience, if you have any, by the thought that it is they, not you, who have her hidden away somewhere now.  You cannot escape that way; it was you who made her, who made others of us, what we are.”

“Let her rave, Ogleby,” sneered Dorgan.

“Yes—­raving, that’s it,” echoed Ogleby.  But his expression belied him.

“There it is,” she continued.  “You have not even an opinion of your own.  You repeat even the remarks of others.  They have you in their power.  You have put yourself there.”

“All very pretty,” remarked Dorgan with biting sarcasm.  “All very cleverly thought out.  So nice here!  Wait until you have to tell that story in court.  You know the first rule of equity?  Do you go into court with clean hands?  There is a day of reckoning coming to you, young woman, and to these other meddlers here—­whether they are playing politics or meddling just because they are old-maidish busy-bodies.”

She was facing the politician with burning cheeks.