Alpha Book

I know my power,
Mr. Carl Walraven, and I mean to use it. Do you think I need wear these
rags? Do you think I need tramp the black, bad streets, night after
night, a homeless, houseless wretch? No; not if I chose, not if I
ordered--do you hear?--_ordered_ my aristocratic friend, Mr. Walraven,
of Fifth Avenue, to empty his plethoric purse in my dirty pocket. Ah,
yes," with a shrill laugh, "Miriam knows her power!"
"Are you almost done?" Mr. Walraven replied, calmly. "Have you come here
for anything but talk? If so, for what?"
"Not your money--be sure of that. I would starve--I would die the death
of a dog in a kennel--before I would eat a mouthful of bread bought with
your gold. I come for justice!"
"Justice"--he lifted a pair of sullen, inquiring eyes--"justice! To
whom?"
"To one whom you have injured beyond reparation--Mary Dane!"
She hissed the name in a sharp, sibilant whisper, and the man recoiled
as if an adder had stung him.
"What do you mean?" he asked, with dry, parched lips. "Why do you come
here to torment me? Mary Dane is dead.


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