"Pish," murmured Calton to himself, as he looked at her glowing face and outstretched hands, "these women are always in extremes. The fact is," he said aloud, "Fitzgerald is able to prove an ALIBI, and he refuses to do so."
"But why?"
Calton shrugged his shoulders.
"That is best known to himself—some Quixotic idea of honour, I fancy. Now, he refuses to tell me where he was on that night; perhaps he won't refuse to tell you—so you must come up and see him with me, and perhaps he will recover his senses, and confess."
"But my father," she faltered.
"Did you not say he was out of town?" asked Calton.
"Yes," hesitated Madge. "But he told me not to go."
"In that case," said Calton, rising and taking up his hat and gloves, "I won't ask you."
She laid her hand on his arm.
"Stop! will it do any good?"