"I don't see why."
"Well, you couldn't have committed murder," he replied, with an air of having uttered explanation of his relief.
"I wish the police could think so!" she cried.
"'Think so?' I'll make them think so. I'll tell that chap out there——"
"But it won't do any good!" cried Clancy. Her cry was almost a wail. Once before she had practically confessed, then withdrawn her confession. Now she could not withdraw. Words rushed from her as from a broken water-main. But, because she was Clancy Deane, they were not words of exculpation, or of apology. They were the facts. Silently Randall heard them through. Then he spoke slowly.
"Any jury in the world would believe you," he said.
"But I don't want to tell it to any jury!" screamed Clancy. "Why—why—the disgrace—I—I——"
Confession is always dramatic, and the dramatic is emotional. The tears welled in her eyes. Through the blur of tears, Randall seemed bigger, sturdier than ever. She reached out her arms toward him.
"You asked me to marry you!" she cried. "I—I—would you want to marry me now?"