to keep
that promise into guilty knowledge of the crime itself? And had not the
mistake driven him into false and valueless interpretations of his
entire interview with Webster?

"He promised," Lucille pursued, "for the same reason I had in asking
it--to prevent discovery of the fact that father might have had a motive
for wishing her dead! It was a mistake, I see now, a terrible mistake!"

"Can you tell me why you didn't have the same thoughts about Berne?" He
was sorry he had to make that inquiry. If he could, he would have spared
her further distress. "Why wouldn't he have had the same motive, hatred
of Mildred Brace, a thousand times stronger?"

"I don't know," she said. "I simply never thought of it--not once."

Fine psychologist that he was, Hastings knew why that view had not
occurred to her. Her love for Webster was an idealizing sentiment,
putting him beyond even the possibility of wrong-doing. Her love for her
father, unusual in its devotion as it was, recognized his weaknesses
nevertheless.

And, while seeking to protect the two, she had told a story which, so
far as bald facts went, incriminated the lover far more than the father.
She had attributed to Sloane, in her uneasiness, the motive which would
have been most natural to the discarded Webster. Even now, she could not
suspect Berne; her only fear was that others, not understanding him as
she did, might suspect him! Although she had broken with him, she still
loved him. More than that: his illness and consequent helplessness
increased her devotion for him, brought to the surface the maternal
phase of it.

"If she had to choose between the two," Hastings thought, "she'd save
Webster--every time!"

"I know--I tell you, Mr. Hastings, I _know_ neither Berne nor father is
at all responsible for this crime. I tell you," she repeated, rising to
her feet, as if by mere physical height she hoped to impress her
knowledge upon him, "I _know_ they're innocent.--Don't _you_ know it?"

She stood looking down at him, her whole body tense, arms held close
against her sides, the knuckles of her fingers white as ivory. Her eyes
now were dry, and brilliant.

He evaded the flat statement to which she pressed him.

"But your knowledge, Miss Sloane, and what we must prove," he said, also
standing, "are two different things just now. The authorities will
demand proofs."

"I know. That's why I've told you these things." Somehow, her manner
reproached him. "You sai