riend to me to-night. God will surely bless
you for what you have done." She paused, with heightened colour.

Mr. Rogers awkwardly stammered that he hoped she wouldn't mention it.
But if the speech was inadequate, his action made up for it. He took
her hand and kissed it respectfully.

It seemed that she had more to say. "I have still another favour to
ask," she went on--I have heard since that a woman always keeps some
tenderness for an honest man who has once wooed her, however
decidedly she may have said "no." Isabel's smile was at once tender
and anxious; but it drew no response from Mr. Rogers, who had let
drop her fingers and stood now with eyes uncomfortably averted.

"I want a wedding gift," said she.

"Eh?" He turned a flushed face and perceived that she was pointing
at Leicester.

"I want this man from you. Will you give him to me?"

"For what?"

"You shall see." She knelt at the prisoner's feet and began to
unbuckle the strap about his ankles; shrinking a little at first at
the touch of him, but resolutely conquering her disgust.

Mr. Rogers put down a hand to prevent her.

"You never mean to set him free?"

"That is what I ask," she answered, with an upturned look of appeal.

"My dear Miss Brooks," he said, inadvertently using her maiden name,
"I am sorry--no, that's a lie--I am jolly glad to say that it can't
be done."

"Why? Against whom else has he sinned, to injure them?"

"Against a good many, even if we put it on that ground only.
Besides, he'll have to answer another charge altogether."

"What charge?"

"Of having murdered the Jew Rodriguez. Did I not tell you that we
found marked money in his pocket?"

"But he never took that money from Mr. Rodriguez?"

Mr. Rogers shrugged his shoulders. "That's for him to prove."

"But we know he did not," Isabel insisted, and turned to me.
"He never took that money from Mr. Rodriguez?"

"No," said I; "it was given him last night by Mr. Whitmore in Miss
Belcher's shrubbery."

"He is not guilty of this murder?"

"No," said I again, "I think not: indeed, I am sure he is not."
I glanced at Archibald Plinlimmon who had been standing with eyes
downcast and gloomy, studying the dim pattern of the carpet at his
feet. He looked up now: his face had grown resolute.

"No," he echoed in a strained voice; "he had nothing to do with the
murder."

"Why, what on earth do _you_ know?" cried Mr. Rogers, and Isabel,
too, bent back on her kne