“Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is perfectly innocent?”
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked: “Why didn’t they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night.”
“You could?” What was I to think of this woman?
“Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don’t you see?”
Ah, that was all.
“That does not follow,” I answered sadly. “Can you give no other reason?”
“I would say whatever was necessary,” she whispered.
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin; had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified.
“Miss Leavenworth,” said I, “nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love.”
“No?” she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.