Her face did not change. "I have heard so."
"He has, in the most decided manner, refused to state where he was between eleven and three on that night. His refusal has brought him into great danger of his life."
She looked at him steadily.
"He feels bound in honor not to disclose his whereabouts, though I know that, if he chose to speak, he could bring a witness to clear him."
"He seems to be a very honorable man." The cold voice wavered a trifle, then steadied again.
"Yes. Undoubtedly, from his point of view, he is doing the right thing. You will understand, however, that, as his brother, I am naturally anxious to have the matter put in its proper light."
"I don't understand why you are telling me all this. I suppose, if the thing is disgraceful, he doesn't want it known."
"Obviously. But to us—to his wife and young son, and to his sister and myself—his life and safety are matters of the first importance."
"Of more importance than his honor?"
"The secret is a disgraceful one in a sense, and will give pain to his family. But it would be an infinitely greater disgrace that he should be executed for murder. The stigma in that case would involve all those who bear his name. The shame of the truth will, I fear, in this very unjust society of ours, rest more upon the witness to his alibi than upon himself."