Dorothy stared at her, trembling. “You mean—”
“I mean you don't believe he killed him! You don't believe Burr Gordon killed his cousin Lot!”
Dorothy sank weakly back on her pillows. Great tears welled up in her blue eyes and rolled down her soft cheeks. “They saw him there,” she sobbed out, “and they found his knife. Oh, I didn't think he was so wicked!”
Madelon caught her by one slender arm hard, as if she would have shaken her. “You believe it!” she cried out. “You believe that Burr did it—you!”
“They—saw—him—there,” moaned Dorothy, with a terrified roll of her tearful eyes at Madelon's face.
“Saw him there! What if they did see him there? What if the whole town saw him? What if you saw him? What if you saw him strike the blow with your own eyes? Wouldn't you tear them out of your own head before you believed it? Wouldn't you cut your own tongue out before you'd bear witness against him?”
Dorothy sobbed convulsively.
“I would,” said Madelon.
Dorothy hid her face away from her in the pillow.
Madelon laid her hand on her fair head, and turned it with no gentle hand. “Listen to me now,” she said. “You've got to listen. You've got to hear what I say. You ought to believe without being told, without knowing anything about it, that he's innocent, if you're a woman and love him; but I'm going to tell you. Burr Gordon didn't kill his cousin Lot. I did!”