"And you stabbed him!" cried Rhoda; "stabbed your husband! Murderess!"
"I don't deny it," said Ruth, slowly. "The jury must decide that. I must be tried, I suppose—"
"Don't, Ruth!" I cried, in agony. "Don't talk like that! You shall not be tried! You didn't kill Schuyler! If you did it was in self-defence. Wasn't it? Didn't he try to kill you?"
"Yes, he did. He snatched the little carver from the sideboard and attacked me,—and I—and I—"
"Don't say it, Ruth—keep still!" I ordered, beside myself with my whirling thoughts. The little carving-knife!
"And you defended yourself with the caterer's knife—" began Stone, but Fibsy wailed, "No! No! It wasn't Mrs. Schuyler! I've got the prints from the caterer's knife and they ain't Mrs. Schuyler's at all! She didn't kill him!"
"No, she didn't!" and Tibbetts appeared in the library doorway. "I did it myself."
"That's right!" and Fibsy's eyes gleamed satisfaction; "she did! It's her fingermarks on the knife that stabbed old Schuyler. They're plain as print! Nobody thought of matching up those marks with Tibbetts's mitt! But I'll bet she did it to save Mrs. Schuyler's life!"
"I did," and Tibbetts came into the room and stood facing us.
"Tell your story," said Stone, abruptly, as he looked at the white-faced woman.