"I have come to you to-night to throw myself on your honour, to appeal to your generosity—to beg you, to pray you, on my knees if necessary, to help me to undo the great wrong that I have done to an innocent man. Oh, Mr. Despard, I know you don't like him, but I do not ask a favour for him. I ask it for myself. You once said you were fond of me, that you loved me. Think then what it means to me when I love Rupert Dale more than life—more than honour—more than anything in this world or the next. Think of my feelings—-night and day, night and day, never a moment's rest—never a moment's peace; always the same terrible thought clutching my heart, tearing my very soul. That I—I, his chosen love, his future wife, have ruined him, blasted his life, branded his name with dishonour, made him an outcast, an outlaw, hiding in shame from his fellow-men. And Marjorie, his sister, she is suffering, too. I cannot bear it any longer. I should have killed myself long ago if that would have helped; but it would only end it for me, while he would live on, never able to clear himself, without hope, doomed to life-long suffering by my act. My statements were not believed. Your evidence contradicted mine, or, at least, threw doubt on what I said. The jury would not believe me, and an innocent man was condemned to penal servitude for my crime. I know you saw the cheque in my hand because you frightened me by asking me if it was my winnings. When I went out of the room I turned as I reached the door and saw you looking at the blotting-pad. You looked up and our eyes met. I knew you had seen the figures on it as surely as though you had told me. For some reason you denied all this in court. I thought at the time it was to screen me, I know now that you had another motive. I have been to my solicitors and to Sir Reginald's; they both tell me that it is quite useless appealing to the Home Secretary for a re-hearing or a pardon or anything, unless there is some new evidence that was not given at the trial and that will conclusively prove my guilt. You can give that evidence—you can prove that what I said at the trial was true—you can save the man I love from worse than death. God help me, but you will, you will!"
She stopped. Despard struck a match and lit his cigar and puffed the smoke in rings to the ceiling. When the silence had lasted till she could bear it no longer Ruby's eyes fell upon her tumbler, and with a trembling hand she raised and emptied it. It burned her throat like fire, but her strained nerves hardly noticed it. She lay back in her chair and closed her eyes. She heard, as from a distance, Despard's voice, soft and coaxing.
"My dear little girl, I had no idea you felt it like that. You have always treated me so harshly, so coldly, I thought you had no heart, that you were incapable of feeling the passion that consumed me, or of understanding why I refused to speak. I will confess to you now that I did it because I love you—there, don't move, hear me out. I couldn't bear to send you to prison, to make you suffer. I thought you would forget this fellow Dale, now that he has gone out of your life for ever. For remember, that whatever happens, he can never marry you after this. Even if he was pardoned and returned to England—yes, I know he's abroad—the proof of his innocence is your condemnation, don't forget that! So it's not much good clearing his name of crime only to tie him to a felonious wife. Now, I have a little proposal to make to you. I have made some money out of this mine in Devonshire. I have a nice little flat here, a capital little car round at the garage, but no one to share them."
He rose and crossed the room, standing behind her chair so that he could see her face in the mirror above the fireplace, but she could not see him.
"Now, in order to clear Rupert Dale's name, to give him his freedom—which, by the way, he has already taken—I shall have to confess that I committed perjury two years ago. And they make it rather hot for perjurers. They would certainly send me to prison. And you will get there without a shadow of doubt. Nobody knows where Rupert is, nobody cares. He has probably married and settled down in some remote corner of the earth perfectly happy and content. By raking up this wretched affair we shall be merely making several people very uncomfortable, do ourselves an incalculable amount of harm, and benefit Rupert no whit whatever."
In the mirror he saw the colour mount to Ruby's pale cheeks. The suggestion that Rupert was happily married had not been tactful. He waited a moment, but she did not speak.
"Now, supposing I make a statement for private circulation only. It can be witnessed and made quite a legal document if you like, but only those interested should see it—Rupert's father and sister, for example; Sir Reginald, if you can guarantee that he will hold his tongue."
"A statement which will absolutely exonerate Rupert?" Ruby's voice seemed to come with an effort.
"Of course."
"You admit, then, that you saw me alter the cheque in Rupert's rooms that afternoon?"