A wave of sickening terror swept Ruth’s soul. She recalled King’s strange reserve of the past months. His letters were kind and sympathetic, but there was something hidden between their lines that chilled her.
“We must not lose!” she answered, bitterly.
“I don’t think we will,” the lawyer hastened to assure her. “But we must reserve every weapon.”
The Court of Appeals decided in Gordon’s favour and ordered a new trial.
As the day approached, Ruth’s nervousness increased. His chances were better, but she could hear the awful words of Kate Ransom swearing away his life. Their echoes rang in her soul until she could no longer endure it.
She was at Gramercy Park at last.
When Kate swept proudly and coldly into the room, and extended her hand, she held it in her grasp timidly and nervously.
“I’ve come to beg you,” she said, piteously, “not to say he made those wounds in his own breast. They fought a duel as men have often done. You were in a swoon. You thought he did it himself because he told you he was going to die with you. He did not hurt you. He only laid you tenderly on the lounge, smoothed your hair, kissed and left you. Surely you have brought me enough sorrow. Have pity on me!”
Kate led her to a seat and spoke with quiet decision. “I said what I believed to be the truth. I shall repeat it. I can feel his wild beast’s claws on my throat now in the night sometimes and wake with a scream.”
“Ah, but he was mad,” she cried, through her tears. “He is tender and gentle as a child. Surely you”—she paused and caught her breath—“who have slept with your head on his dear breast know this!”