“How can anything you know save him?” she asked, with a queer, faint emphasis which I didn’t understand.
“Don’t you see,” I cried, “that if we come forward and say we saw him in the Rue d’Hollande at a quarter past twelve—going into a house there—he couldn’t have murdered the man in that other house, far away. It all hangs on the time.”
“But you didn’t see him go in,” Lisa contradicted me.
I stared at her. “You did. Isn’t it the same thing?”
“No, not unless I choose to say so.”
“And—but you will choose. You want to save him, of course.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s innocent. Because he’s your friend.”
“No man is the friend of any woman, if he’s in love with another.”
“Oh, Lisa, does sophistry of that sort matter? Does anything matter except saving him?”