Craig sneered. "She says what she has been told to say," he said with dry lips. "You will understand why, presently."
"Perhaps," returned the Governor, coldly, "I shall." Then, turning to Echo—
"How do you know this is not the man?"
"This man is tall; the man who did the shooting was short."
"But—his face. You saw it that night distinctly? Would you know it if you saw it again?"
"As well as I know yours."
He said no more, and after an instant's pause, she went on:
"Mr. Mason, his lawyer, had told me he believed that if the shooting could have been disproved, his client might have been cleared, and knowing what I did, it seemed to me that I must tell the whole. It—was not easy, for while that night I had thought only of keeping the secret of the letter, I came to see later what the world would say of my presence there. And a woman's name is all she has. So ... I made up my mind. But that same day I read that the man had escaped from prison. There seemed no longer any need then of my telling. There had been no need till now."
She stopped, and stood looking steadily at the Governor, her hands twisted together, her face white. She was far less vividly conscious of him, however, and of all the others—Craig, her father, Treadwell—than of one whom she thought far away, but who now, sometime or other, must know!
The Governor spoke, quietly and evenly: