"But this," and I leaned forward and tapped the note.
"Yes—that—I can't explain it. At least, the only explanation I can give is that it's a hideous mistake."
"A mistake? But Miss Lawrence wasn't an emotional woman?" I questioned. "Not a woman to be carried away by a moment's passion?"
"Oh, no! Quite the contrary."
"Not a woman who would jump at a conclusion?" I persisted. "Not a woman who would condemn a man unheard—who would overlook the possibility of mistake and be convinced by what we lawyers call circumstantial evidence?"
"She was not such a woman at all," he said decidedly. "She was just the opposite of all that."
"That makes it more difficult," I pointed out.
"I know; I've thought it all out, as well as I'm able—only there's a blank wall I can't get past. Besides, if there's a reason, I have the right to know it."
"Yes," I assented heartily. "Undoubtedly you have the right to know it. There we're on solid ground. Well, that point is settled, then. And now I must ask you another question, Mr. Curtiss, which you may resent, but which it is absolutely necessary I should ask if I'm to be of any help to you."
"I think I can guess what it is, Mr. Lester," and he smiled grimly. "Since Marcia disappeared, I've reviewed carefully my whole past life, and I can find nothing in it which would justify, in the slightest degree, such an action. I've not been a saint, but at least I've never been dishonourable nor dissolute. Does that answer the question?"