"I'm not going to despair," she said bravely, with a kind of gulp and a tremor of her throat that set the diamonds streaming blue fire. "I think things will come all right. I've had a kind of a—kind of sign. Shall I tell you?"—timidly.
I'm foolishly impulsive, and I kissed her hand. After all, the dog does it.
"Listen, then! Thursday week"—I started, but she didn't notice it—"Thursday week I was feeling simply awful all day. I can't explain it. Imagine some one you love is being tried for something that means death—or more awful still, if it goes against him. It got worse and worse. I've never missed a night I was billed for, but I shouldn't have been able to go on as I was. Still, I went down to the theatre—just on chance, you know. It was half-past seven or quarter to eight. I had an hour, but I dressed early to be safe. Suddenly something seemed to say inside of me, 'Now! now! down on your knees, quick. This is the dangerous time.' My dresser had gone out. I locked the door, and fell on my knees in a kind of faint. I prayed, and prayed as well as I could. I don't remember much what. I think I asked God, if Paul was never, never to be happy again, to take him the best way to some place where nothing could hurt him any more, and where he would see me and know what I was feeling for him. And then, Mr. Prentice—and then——Oh! it was wonderful. Something all warm and comfortable, like—oh! like cloves—why do you laugh? I'm trying to tell you the best way I can—seemed to come round my heart. I got up from my knees. It was eight-fifteen, and my dresser was banging on the door and asking if I was ill. I opened it and hugged her. She must have thought me crazy. All the sadness was gone—every bit. I knew they'd done trying him, and he—and he——" She struggled with her emotion, and, then, covering her face with her hands, rocked backward and forward, moaning and sobbing—"he's Not Guilty. No! my love's Not Guilty."
There was a knock at the door. She turned her head quickly into the shadow.
"Come in!"
"It's Sir Bryan, madam."
"Tell him to wait in the dining-room.... Now, Mr. Prentice, we must try again. What are the best papers to advertise in? Papers that—that quite poor people read most?"
I gave two or three an unsolicited testimonial.
"Write your address—your private address—on this card. I'll put an advert."—she said it this way—"in three for a year. Just your initial. The moment you hear, telegraph—no, telephone me! I'll say you're to be always given my address. I don't go to New York for nearly a year. Good-bye. I'll send you something for your paper to-night."
I did not see the sporting baronet, but I smelt his cigar in the hall, and I saw his damned motor-car outside the door. And as I walked out of the little square, I wondered whether perhaps it wouldn't be to every one's advantage, and his own, if Paul Ingram should never be heard of on this earth again.