and all of them bore out his statement as to
his whereabouts. Then he produced several contracts; these were deeds
between himself and various traders, and were dated at the towns at
which they were signed. Each book and paper he passed on to Prudence
for her scrutiny, drawing her attention to the corroboration in the
evidence. There could be no doubt as to the genuineness of these
facts, and the girl's last shadowy doubts of his innocence evaporated
before the overwhelming detail. The hope which had filled her heart
was now replaced by a triumphant joy. This man had shown her, had
convinced her, and she wanted nothing more at that moment.

She looked up into his face, hoping to see a reflection of her own
happiness in it. But there was no happiness there. His face was calm,
but the melancholy had deepened in his eyes. What she saw came like an
icy douche to her, and the happy expression died upon her lips. She
suddenly remembered that he had said he could not use this evidence to
publicly declare his innocence.

"But----" she began.

He shook his head. He knew that she wished to protest. For a moment
they looked into each other's eyes. Then the woman, the weaker, broke
down under the strain. Tears came to her eyes, and she poured out all
the pent-up grief of her hours of misery.

"Oh, George," she cried, "can you ever forgive my wickedness? I ought
never to have believed. My heart told me that you were innocent; but
the evidence--oh, the evidence. I could see no loophole. Everything
pointed to you--you. And I, wretch that I am, I believed." And the
girl sobbed as though her heart would break. Iredale made no attempt
to soothe her; he felt that it would be good for her to weep. She
leant against the table, and after a while her sobs quietened. Then
the man touched her upon the shoulder.

"Don't cry, Prue; my heart bleeds for you when I listen to your sobs.
You're not to blame for believing me guilty. Twelve jurymen will
shortly do the same, and who can blame them?" He shrugged. "I must
face the 'music' and take my chance. And now, child," he added, his
hand still resting upon her shoulder, and smiling down upon her from
his superior height, "give me that which you have concealed in your
pocket. We will throw it away."

Prudence sprang up and moved beyond his reach.

"No, no! I can't! Don't ask me. Spare me the shame of it. As you love
me, George, don't ask me for it."

"As you will, dear; I merely wished to r