“Really,” she answered, colouring slightly, “I can’t tell you.  I mustn’t say a word about who was there—­or anything about it.  Good heavens—­it is bad enough as it is—­to think that my name may be dragged into politics and all sorts of false stories set in motion about me.  You must protect me, Mr. Carton, you must.”

“How did you find out about the detectaphone being there?” asked Kennedy.

“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 he felt keenly, for some reason or other, the appeal she was making to him, “must I say again that I had nothing whatever to do with it?  I have sent for Mr. Kennedy and—–­”

“Nothing—­on your honour?” she asked, facing him squarely.

“Nothing—­on my honour,” he asserted frankly.

She appeared to be dazed.  Apparently all along she had assumed that Carton must be the person to see, that he alone could do anything for her, would do something.

Her face paled as she met his earnest look.  She had risen and now, half chagrined, half frightened, she stood irresolute.  Her lips quivered and tears stood in her eyes as she realized that, instead of protecting herself by her confidence, she had, perhaps, made matters worse by telling an outsider.

Carton, too, had risen and in a low voice which we could not overhear was trying to reassure her.

In her confusion she was moving toward the door, utterly oblivious, now, to us.  Carton tactfully took her arm and led her to a private entrance that opened from his office down the corridor and out of sight of the watchful eyes of the reporters and attendants in the outer hall.