He shook his head as he looked down at her tenderly, reverentially.
“It is like you; yes, I might have known!” he said, almost to himself. “But you have not counted the cost. Already the story of Miss Vanley’s visit to Harold Faradeane, the mur——”—he stopped in time, warned by her sudden pallor—“the prisoner, is on its round. Why should you make yourself a victim to scandalous tongues? Tell me why you came, and—forgive me once more—but you must not stay here another minute. Why have you come?”
“I have come because I want you to tell me who did this thing!”
He turned away from her, and looked through the barred window again, a wistful, anxious expression in his eyes.
“I cannot do that,” he said. “You—you ask too much. You have heard the evidence——”
She uttered an exclamation of impatience.
“Yes; oh, yes! But what is all that to me who knows that you are innocent?”
He sighed, and glanced at her sadly.
“You cannot know that,” he said, gravely.
“But I do know it!” she said. “Do you think if I had doubted your innocence——”