"He did not send you here," Deane continued, "to beg for help—to waste my time in purposeless recriminations?"
"No!" she answered faintly.
"He knew very well," Deane continued, "that no mortal man can help him. The trial is over and the case is lost. The only thing to work for now is a reprieve."
"But that is not what I want," she interrupted. "He must be pardoned!"
"That," answered Deane, "is impossible. Neither I nor anyone breathing can work miracles."
She leaned towards him with accusing eyes. "But it was you," she declared,—"it was you for whom he undertook this enterprise!"
Deane shrugged his shoulders. "My dear young lady," he said, "you are mistaken. I cannot explain to you yet the full significance of those various messages which you have brought me from your brother, but believe me, what he did, he did knowing well the risks he undertook, and without any thought or hope of aid from me if he should fail. I will be quite honest with you, if you like. I will tell you the exact truth. Your brother and Sinclair were once friends. Sinclair and I were always enemies. There was a little matter of business open between us, and I thought that your brother might very well arrange it. I had no idea of his quarrelling with Sinclair. I did not encourage him to do so in any way."
"You sent him there," she persisted doggedly.
"I send messengers to every part of the world," Deane answered, "but I do not incite them to enter into murderous quarrels with the people whom they go to see. I will do what I can for your brother, but it must be in my own way."
"You will be able at least to save him from—from—"