crying out began to make
itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.

She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the
result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly--

"How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in
all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie's death. His
life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own
words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make?
Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which
Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day."

The girl's denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice.
For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole
for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down,
leaving her worse distracted for its coming.

For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.

"Ah, you cannot--you cannot," she went on hysterically. "I might have
known, I did know." A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then
something of the woman broke through her anger, and a heart-breaking
piteousness sounded in her voice. "Oh, why, why did you do this thing?
Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would
his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth
it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And
to think of it! A murderer!" Then the fierce anger became dominant
once more. "But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as
far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George
Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang
unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have
given to me." She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath
startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had
remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had
talked of "judge and jury." Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the
recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed
her.

Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw--that catch
of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition
served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that
hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to
such questions, and he read the answer aright.

"Prudence," he said, in his deep musical voic