n
the victory over this woman's subtleties.

"Well, that's just what I thought," he said, with smug content. "And
now, then, who did shoot Griggs? We've got every one of the gang.
They're all crooks. See here," he went on, with a sudden change to the
respectful in his manner, "why don't you start fresh? I'll give you
every chance in the world. I'm dead on the level with you this time."

But he was too late. By now, Mary had herself well in hand again, vastly
ashamed of the short period of self-betrayal caused by the official's
artifice against her heart. As she listened to the Inspector's
assurances, the mocking expression of her face was not encouraging to
that astute individual, but he persevered manfully.

"Just you wait," he went on cheerfully, "and I'll prove to you that I'm
on the level about this, that I'm really your friend.... There was a
letter came for you to your apartment. My men brought it down to me.
I've read it. Here it is. I'll read it to you!"

He picked up an envelope, which had been lying on the desk, and drew out
the single sheet of paper it contained. Mary watched him, wondering much
more than her expression revealed over this new development. Then, as
she listened, quick interest touched her features to a new life. In her
eyes leaped emotions to make or mar a life.

This was the letter:

"I can't go without telling you how sorry I am. There won't never be a
time that I won't remember it was me got you sent up, that you did time
in my place. I ain't going to forgive myself ever, and I swear I'm going
straight always.

"Your true friend,

"HELEN MORRIS."

For once, Burke showed a certain delicacy. When he had finished the
reading, he said nothing for a long minute--only, sat with his cunning
eyes on the face of the woman who was immobile there before him. And,
as he looked on her in her slender elegance of form and gentlewomanly
loveliness of face, a loveliness intelligent and refined beyond that of
most women, he felt borne in on his consciousness the fact that here
was one to be respected. He fought against the impression. It was to him
preposterous, for she was one of that underworld against which he was
ruthlessly at war. Yet, he could not altogether overcome his instinct
toward a half-reverent admiration.... And, as the letter proved, she
had been innocent at the outset. She had been the victim of a mistaken
justice, made outcast by the law she had never wronged.... His mood of
res