"Do you really believe, O'Meara, that I had no hand in this murder?"
"I do," emphatically.
"And you, Ray?"
"I! You deserve to be kicked for asking. I'll tell just what I think, a little later; I know you didn't kill Burrill."
Clifford Heath withdraws his gaze from the faces of his visitors, and seems to hesitate; then he says slowly:
"I am deeply grateful for your confidence in me; but, I fear my actions must belie my words. My friends, the evidence is more than I can combat. I can't prove an alibi; and there's no other way to clear myself."
"Bah!" retorts O'Meara; "there are several ways. Let us take the ground that you are innocent; there must then be some one upon whom to fasten the guilt. You have an enemy; some one has stolen your handkerchief and your knife. Who is that enemy? Whom do you suspect?"
The prisoner shook his head. "I shall accuse no one," he said, briefly.
"What!" burst out Ray Vandyck; "you will not hunt down your enemy? This is too much! Heath, I believe you could put your hand on the assassin."
No reply from the prisoner; he sits with his head bowed upon his hand, a look of dogged resolution upon his face.