A note of passion suddenly crept into her voice. Her little white hand, with its accusing forefinger, shot out towards him.
“Because it was you, Arthur Morrison, who committed that crime,” she cried, “and sooner than another man should suffer for it, I shall go to court myself and tell the truth.”
He was, for the moment, absolutely speechless, pale as death, with nervously twitching lips and fingers. But there was murder in his eyes.
“What do you know about this?” he muttered.
“Never mind,” she answered. “I know and I guess quite enough to convince me—and I think anybody else—that you are the guilty man. I would have helped you and shielded you, whatever it cost me, but I will not do so at Stephen Laverick’s expense.”
“What is Laverick to you?” he growled.
“He is nothing to me,” she replied, “but the best of friends. Even were he less than that, do you suppose that I would let an innocent man suffer?”
He moistened his dry lips rapidly.
“You are talking nonsense, Zoe,” he said,—“nonsense! Even if there has been some little mistake, what could I do now? I have given my evidence. So far as I am concerned, the case is finished. I shall not be called again until the trial.”
“Then you had better go to the magistrates tomorrow morning and take back your evidence,” she declared boldly, “for if you do not, I shall be there and I shall tell the truth.”