"Why," she replied evasively, "I thought it was just an ordinary
little social dinner. That's what Mr. Murtha told me it was. I
didn't think anyone outside was interested in it or in who was
there or what went on. But, this morning, a--a friend--called me
up and told me--something that made me think others besides those
invited knew of it, knew too much."

She paused, then resumed hastily to forestall questioning, "I
began to think it over myself, and the more I thought of it, the
stranger it seemed that anyone else, outside, should know. I began
to wonder how it leaked out, for I understood that it was a
strictly private affair. I asked Mr. Murtha and he told Mr.
Dorgan. Mr. Dorgan at once guessed that there had been something
queer. He looked about his rooms there, and, sure enough, they
found the detectaphone concealed in the wall. I can't tell any
more," she added, facing Carton and using her bewitching eyes to
their best advantage. "I can't ask you to shield Mr. Dorgan and
Mr. Murtha. They are your opponents. But I have done nothing to
you, Mr. Carton. You must suppress--that part of it--about me.
Why, it would ruin---"

She cut her words short. But I knew what she meant, and to a
certain extent I could understand, if not sympathize with her. Her
husband, Martin Ogleby, club-man and man about town, had a
reputation none too savoury. But, man-like, I knew, he would
condone not even the appearance of anything that caused gossip in
his wife's actions. I could understand how desperate she felt.

"But, my dear lady," repeated Carton, in a manner that showed that