"Of course I must, nurse; I can tell them who the unfortunate man was, and account for him up to a very late hour on the night of the seventeenth of April."
"Take care, George," said the old woman. "If you can't account for yourself afterwards, you can't clear yourself."
The observation was shrewd and sensible. George felt it so, and said, "Never mind that. I am innocent, and when the time comes I shall have no difficulty in proving myself innocent."
"You know best, George," said the old woman, with a resigned sigh; "but tell me, who was this poor man?"
"Sit down and I will tell you all about it."
Then George seated his old friend close beside him, and told her the whole story of his intercourse with Stewart Routh, of his knowledge of Deane, his last meeting with him, their dinner together, the adjournment to the billiard-rooms, the money won by Dallas from Deane, and his leaving town early the next morning for Amherst.
"That was the day they found the body, was it not?" asked Mrs. Brookes.
"Let me see," said George; and he again referred to the newspapers.
"Yes, it was on Wednesday the eighteenth--in the evening. I was down at Amherst then, nurse; that was the day I saw my mother last."
He sighed, but a smile stole over his face also. A cherished memory of that day abode in his heart.