"Look at this message," he croaked, in a half whisper; and showed her the crumpled bit of paper which he had held in his own hand. He beckoned to her—yet again—for silence, but she did not understand.
"What is it?" asked Aurora. "What do you mean?"
"From the state's attorney! I have accepted this retainer. I'm of the prosecution! You have come too late. What can I do?"
"Prosecution—what do you mean? Prosecute him—Don? Too late—my God! Am I always too late—is it always in all the world for me—too late! Prosecute him? What do you mean?"
The sudden, wailing cry broke from her. Then her voice trailed off into a whisper—a whisper which might have been heard very far—which was heard through the half-closed door which led to the inner room. "Too late!" And at length the long-tried soul of Aurora Lane broke out in a final and uncontrolled rebellion, all bounds down, all restraint forgotten, every instinct at last released of its long fettering:
"You disown him—you'd disown your own flesh and blood—you'd let him die! Why, you'd betray your own Master for the price of office and of honor! Oh, I know, I know! The limelight! Publicity! Oh, you Judas!—Ah, Judas! Judas! You, his father! Your own son!"
Then sobs, deep, convulsive.
Came sudden rustling of garments in the adjoining room. The intervening door was flung wide. Anne Oglesby, her face pale, tense, came out into the room where stood these two.
"What is this?" she demanded of Judge Henderson. "This is Mrs. Lane? Don's your son?"
She turned to Aurora inquiringly.