"If, being innocent," the Governor went on, "you put on the mask, the only presumption is that you did not wish the woman to recognise you. Therefore, she knew. Did you speak to her?"
There was no reply.
"If you spoke to her, it was when the man who had fired the shot was in flight. Your words to her, verified by herself—if she were reputable—would be evidence that you did not do the shooting. Why then, did you not call her as a witness?"
The long French-window had swung again ajar and the cooling evening breeze rustled the paper that lay upon the table. From the far road there came a muffled, long-drawn cheer, that trailed across the tense silence of the room.
"If the significant fact which could be brought forward at your trial was the identity of this missing witness; if her testimony would show that the law had erred—if it might operate to establish your innocence—would not she herself justify you in revealing it?"
The silence, a longer one this time, remained unbroken.
"Do you still refuse to tell the name of the woman?"
"I do."
The Governor leaned to the table and picked up the pen. But in the instant there was a quick step behind them.
All turned. Echo stood framed in the window—a figure in filmy white, against which a single rose glowed like a hot ruby.