"No," he replied simply, "I am not. Only of the chances of a wandering life."
"You seem to look at every chance, Luke, except one."
"Which one is that?"
"That though you might be arrested, though you might be accused and even tried for the murder of—of that man—truth might come out, and your innocence proved."
"That would be impossible, Lou," he said quietly.
"Why—in Heaven's name, Luke!" she exclaimed passionately, "why?"
"My dagger-stick was found inside the railings of the park—and the stains on it are irrefutable proofs."
"That's only circumstantial evidence," she argued, "you can demolish it, if you choose."
"I cannot," he replied. "I should plead guilty—Mr. Dobson says that if I plead guilty, counsel can plead extenuating circumstances—intense provocation and so forth—and I might get a more lenient sentence."
"Luke," she said, looking him straight in the face, compelling his eyes to meet hers, for in their clear depths she meant to read the truth, to compel the truth at last. He had never lied in his life. If he lied now she would know it, she would read it in his face. "Luke! you are shielding some one by taking the crime on your own shoulders."