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 everything, his dearest possessions, or the promise of them, to get you where he has you now, but at last you are there—where a cruel, contemptible fraud seems to you a laudable business enterprise. No one else could have done this but John Boland. He is a cunning corrupter of the souls of men. In your old office you told me once that you could never be retained by 'the other side.' But today you are, Henry Harrington; you are."

"That is all. Positively all!" declared the lawyer, patience tried to the limit.

Suddenly the girl was calm—with the calmness of a tornado that had blown itself out. "Yes," she assented; "that is all." Her bosom still heaved with the aftermath of her emotions, but she was manifesting an almost impertinent self-possession. "You left the Stanfield report with Mr. Boland, I suppose?" she questioned coldly.

"I returned it to its rightful owner," Harrington responded with a bite in his tone.

"I had taken the precaution to have it photographed," the girl observed dryly.

"Photographed!" Harrington had learned to be suspicious of this Indian blood when it became unexpectedly calm or unexplainably complacent. He darted a threatening glance and moved swiftly between his visitor and the door. "You . . . you wouldn't take this thing up with Washington yourself? . . . You . . . You'd best not interfere!" he breathed angrily.

The girl's manner changed like lightning, as if a carefully designed maneuver had succeeded; and she thrust out her face at him, white teeth gleaming in a smile of exultation, "No!" she cried. "I wouldn't.