"will you listen to me for a few
minutes? Believe me, there is no occasion for this desperate manner--"

"I _am_ desperate."

"Perhaps. I understand your feelings; you and Mr. Maillot have my
deepest sympa--"

She cut me short with a rap of the pistol upon the chair-back; I looked
to see the thing go off.

"We don't want sympathy," she said through her teeth. "We want
justice. And justice we 'll have. Go over there and write!"

She imperiously indicated the desk.

Was a man ever caught in such an absurd predicament! I was truly sober
now. I was resolved not to commit myself to anything that would only
make me ridiculous; but this passionate, high-strung girl had told only
the truth when she warned me that she was in dead earnest. My dilemma
was most perplexing--and irritating, too. Could she be made to
understand that if I exposed my hand now, before the issue was ripe,
that the disclosure might work irreparable injury? Would she
comprehend that such a course would immediately drive the guilty inside
their defences? Could she be made to see that it was better for her
lover to endure a temporary inconvenience, than to be left in a
position where he could never be freed from reproach? Perhaps so, but
only by showing her where her father stood. I scarcely need point how
impossible such a choice was. And in her present mood!

"Where is Miss Cooper?" I asked at last.

She abruptly clutched the hand that held the keys, so that they clicked
together.

"Never mind," she flared at me, with a stamp of her foot. "Obey me."

"And if I don't?"

And now she levelled the pistol at me. She threw back her head and her
lips curved.

"I 'll shoot," she announced, in a tense tone. "So help me, I 'll
shoot."

[Illustration: "I 'll shoot," she announced in a tense tone, "so help
me, I 'll shoot."]

For a moment we confronted each other, I utterly nonplussed, every line
of the girl's figure breathing relentless determination.

"Miss Fluette," I tried to reason with her, "you are beside yourself.
Pray don't do anything you 'll regret."

But she stopped me. Her voice was harsh and strained.

"Get up out of that chair. Do as I say."

Should I continue to humor her?--for further parleying was wholly out
of the question. And if I wrote anything at all, it would doubtless
have to pass her critical inspection--and also into her
possession--before she would yield an inch.

I had to decide quickly. I sta