“And, may I ask, what has caused this sudden regret?” he inquired, in a tone not far removed from mockery; “the generous action of the prisoner in relieving you from your self-imposed burden of guilt by an acknowledgment that struck at the foundation of the defence I had so carefully prepared?”
“No,” was her short reply; “that could but afford me joy. Of whatever sin he may be guilty, he is at least free from the reproach of accepting deliverance at the expense of a woman. I am sorry I said what I did today, because a revelation has since been made to me, which proves I could never have sustained myself in the position I took, and that it was mere suicidal folly in me to attempt to save Craik Mansell by such means.”
“A revelation?”
“Yes.” And, forgetting all else in the purpose which had actuated her in seeking this interview, Imogene drew nearer to the lawyer and earnestly said: “There have been some persons—I have perceived it—who have wondered at my deep conviction of Craik Mansell’s guilt. But the reasons I had justified it. They were great, greater than anyone knew, greater even than you knew. His mother—were she living—must have thought as I did, had she been placed beside me and seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard from the time of Mrs. Clemmens’ death. Not only were all the facts brought against him in the trial known to me, but I saw him—saw him with my own eyes, running from Mrs. Clemmens’ dining-room door at the very time we suppose the murder to have been committed; that is, at five minutes before noon on the fatal day.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mr. Orcutt, in his astonishment. “You are playing with my credulity, Imogene.”
But she went on, letting her voice fall in awe of the lawyer’s startled look.
“No,” she persisted; “I was in Professor Darling’s observatory. I was looking through a telescope, which had been pointed toward the town. Mrs. Clemmens was much in my mind at the time, and I took the notion to glance at her house, when I saw what I have described to you. I could not help remembering the time,” she added, “for I had looked at the clock but a moment before.”
“And it was five minutes before noon?” broke again from the lawyer’s lips, in what was almost an awestruck tone.
Troubled at an astonishment which seemed to partake of the nature of alarm, she silently bowed her head.
“And you were looking at him—actually looking at him—that very moment through a telescope perched a mile or so away?”
“Yes,” she bowed again.
Turning his face aside, Mr. Orcutt walked to the hearth and began kicking the burnt-out logs with his restless foot. As he did so, Imogene heard him mutter between his set teeth:
“It is almost enough to make one believe in a God!”
Struck, horrified, she glided anxiously to his side.
“Do not you believe in a God?” she asked.
He was silent.
Amazed, almost frightened, for she had never heard him breathe a word of scepticism before—though, to be sure, he had never mentioned the name of the Deity in her presence—she stood looking at him like one who had received a blow; then she said:
“I believe in God. It is my punishment that I do. It is He who wills blood for blood; who dooms the guilty to a merited death. Oh, if He only would accept the sacrifice I so willingly offer!—take the life I so little value, and give me in return—”
“Mansell’s?” completed the lawyer, turning upon her in a burst of fury he no longer had power to suppress. “Is that your cry—always and forever your cry? You drive me too far, Imogene. This mad and senseless passion for a man who no longer loves you—”
“Spare me!” rose from her trembling lips. “Let me forget that.”
But the great lawyer only laughed.
“You make it worth my while to save you the bitterness of such a remembrance,” he cried. Then, as she remained silent, he changed his tone to one of careless inquiry, and asked:
“Was it to tell this story of the prisoner having fled from his aunt’s house that you came here tonight?”
Recalled to the purpose of the hour, she answered, hurriedly:
“Not entirely; that story was what Mr. Ferris expected me to testify to in court this morning. You see for yourself in what a position it would have put the prisoner.”
“And the revelation you have received?” the lawyer coldly urged.
“Was of a deception that has been practised upon me—a base deception by which I was led to think long ago that Craik Mansell had admitted his guilt and only trusted to the excellence of his defence to escape punishment.”
“I do not understand,” said Mr. Orcutt. “Who could have practised such deception upon you?”
“The detectives,” she murmured; “that rough, heartless fellow they call Hickory.” And, in a burst of indignation, she told how she had been practised upon, and what the results had been upon her belief, if not upon the testimony which grew out of that belief.
The lawyer listened with a strange apathy. What would once have aroused his fiercest indignation and fired him to an exertion of his keenest powers, fell on him now like the tedious repetition of an old and worn-out tale. He scarcely looked up when she was done; and despair—the first, perhaps, she had ever really felt—began to close in around her as she saw how deep a gulf she had dug between this man and herself by the inconsiderate act which had robbed him of all hope of ever making her his wife. Moved by this feeling, she suddenly asked:
“Have you lost all interest in your client, Mr. Orcutt? Have you no wish or hope remaining of seeing him acquitted of this crime?”
“My client,” responded the lawyer, with bitter emphasis, “has taken his case into his own hands. It would be presumptuous in me
