She looked at Collingwood. "Colling," she said, "how on earth did you find out?"
Collingwood pointed to the blotter. "Look there," he said.
Peggy and Admaston, still clinging together, went up to the writing-table and stared as if fascinated at the fatal and decisive page.
"Poor Alice!" Collingwood said. "I suppose it is because I have been a bit of a blackguard myself that I can't help feeling sorry for her. Perhaps, Admaston, you will find it in your heart, when the great case is withdrawn to-morrow, to let her down as lightly as possible."
He hesitated for a moment, and then he said in a quiet voice, "I think in her heart she really loved you, don't you know."
Admaston nodded.
"Yes, yes; I see," he said. "I will do what I can."
Collingwood, realising that he had been emotional, pulled himself together with immense aplomb. "It must be a comforting and flattering reflection that, but for the fit of nerves which caused Alice to write that second letter three days ago, there is probably not a judge nor jury in the world which would have refused to make you miserable for life, Admaston."
"You are right, Colling," he said; "but at the moment when no judge nor jury would have doubted her guilt—then, for the first time, I knew in my heart she was innocent."
Collingwood had listened to this, but had also been moving slowly towards the door of the drawing-room.