le she told her story, he stood in front of her, encouraging her
with a smile or a nod now and then, or ambled with soft step among the
shadows, always keeping his eyes upon her. For the moment, her tired
spirit was freshened by his lavish praise of the manner in which she had
accomplished her undertaking. Following that, his ready sympathy made it
easier for her to discuss her fear that her father had planned to bribe
Mrs. Brace.

Nevertheless, the effort taxed her severely. At the end of it, she
leaned back and closed her eyes, only to open them with a start of
fright at the resultant dizziness. The sensation of bodily lightness had
left her. Her limbs felt sheathed in metal. An acute, throbbing pain
racked her head. She was too weary to combat the depression which was
like a cold, freezing hand at her heart.

"You don't say anything!" she complained weakly.

He stood near her chair, gazing thoughtfully before him.

"I'm trying to understand it," he said; "why your father did that.
You're right, of course. He went there to pay her to keep quiet. But
why?"

He looked at her closely.

"Could it be possible," he put the inquiry at last, "that he knew her
before the murder?"

"I've asked him," she said. "No; he never had heard of her--neither he
nor Judge Wilton. I even persuaded him to question Jarvis about that. It
was the same; Jarvis never had--until last Sunday morning."

"You think of everything!" he congratulated her.

"No! Oh, no!"

Some quick and overmastering emotion broke down the last of her
endurance. Whether it was a new and finer appreciation of his
persistent, untiring search for the guilty man, or the realization of
how sincerely he liked her, giving her credit for a frankness she had
not exercised--whatever the pivotal consideration was, she felt that she
could no longer deceive him.

She closed her lips tightly, to keep back the rising sobs, and regarded
him with questioning, fearful eyes.

"What is it?" he asked gently, reading her appealing look.

"I've a confession to make," she said miserably.

He refused to treat it as a tragedy.

"But it can't be very bad!" he exclaimed pleasantly. "When we're
overwrought, imagination's like a lantern swinging in the wind, changing
the size of everything every second."

"But it is bad!" she insisted. "I haven't been fair. I couldn't bring
myself to tell you this. I tried to think you'd get along without it!"

"And now?"

She answered him wi