intention to defraud the widow of David Weatherbee." Here
Mr. Bromley read the clause.

Tisdale, standing at ease, with his hand resting on his chair, glanced
from the attorney to Foster. No mask covered his transparent face; the
dark circles under his fine, expressive eyes betrayed how nearly
threadbare his hope was worn. Then, suddenly, in the moment he met
Tisdale's look, wonder, swift intelligence, contrition, and the gratitude
of his young, sorely tried spirit flashed from his countenance. To Hollis
it became an illuminated scroll.

"As to the main charge," resumed Mr. Bromley, "that is ridiculous. It is
based on an unfortunate accident to an Indian child years ago. The
distorted yarn was published in a late issue of a sensational magazine. No
doubt, most of you have read it, since it was widely circulated.
Different--isn't it?--from that other story of Mr. Tisdale which came down
from Cascade tunnel. Gentlemen, I have the letter that was enclosed with
the manuscript that was submitted to _Sampson's Magazine_. It was not
written by the author, James Daniels, but by a lady, who had offered to
dispose of the material for him, and who, without his knowledge,
substituted a revised copy."

Miles Feversham had subsided, dumbfounded, into his chair; his
self-sufficiency had deserted him; for a moment the purple color surged in
his face; his chagrin overwhelmed him. But Marcia, seated in the front row
outside the bar, showed no confusion. Her brilliant, compelling eyes were
on her husband. It was as though she wished to reinforce him, and at the
same time convey some urgent, vital thought. He glanced around and,
reading the look, started again to his feet. He began to retract his
denunciation. It was evident he had been misinformed; he offered his
apologies to the witness and asked that the case be resumed. But the
prosecuting attorney, disregarding him, continued to explain. "In the
Daniels' manuscript, gentlemen, a coroner's inquest exonerated the man who
was responsible for the death of the papoose; this the magazine
suppressed. I am able to offer in evidence James Daniels' affidavit."

Then, while the jury gathered these varying ideas in fragments, Lucky
Banks' treble rose. "Let's hear what the lady wrote." And some one at the
back of the courtroom said in a deep voice; "Read the lady's letter."

It seemed inevitable. Mr. Bromley had separated a letter from the bundle
of papers. Involuntarily Marcia started up. But