Though wearied by his long ride and the exciting events of the day, Maurice Galbraith slept little that night, and the morning found him pale and restless. He had a hard day's work before him, and perhaps the most trying part of it was the first duty he had set himself to perform. He felt that he owed John Graham an apology for the suspicion which he had entertained against him, and which in that moment of excitement he had made no effort to conceal. Had not the young lawyer been deeply in love with Millicent, and consequently extremely jealous of Graham, it is hardly possible that he could for an instant have believed the preposterous charge made against the artist. But as Love is blind, and Jealousy is deaf to reason, it is not strange that, unprepared as he was for Horton's accusation, he should have believed that it might have some truth. Millicent's revelation, and the calmer reflection which had followed the interview with her, proved to him how greatly his judgment had been at fault. Fervently as he disliked Graham, he had always respected him; and to his generous mind, the injustice he had done his rival was abhorrent. He found the artist at the inn, where they had parted the previous night. Graham received the lawyer with a cold formality: the latter did not fail to observe the nervous clinching of the artist's hands as he entered the room. The fierce natural instinct of redressing an insult by a personal chastisement moved the refined man. Poet-artist as he was, he would rather, a thousand times, have grappled with Galbraith in a fierce struggle, than have been forced to receive and accept his apology. Maurice Galbraith, had he yielded to the impulse which shook his determination, would have spoken words which might have justified such an action on Graham's part. The men looked angrily at each other for a moment. Maurice Galbraith's words of apology would not utter themselves, and seemed like to choke him. He saw that clinching of the hand, and his brow reddened as he stepped forward as if to strike the man who had so easily won, and who so lightly valued, the love of Millicent Almsford.
In a land where a lower code of ethics and of honor exists, the insult each burned to cast upon the other would have been uttered; and the result would have been a so-called "affair of honor," in which both men would have run the risk of bringing blood-guiltiness upon their souls, and the stigma of murder upon their honorable names. The struggle in Galbraith's breast was short, and human intelligence triumphed over brute instinct. His few words of apology were spoken with cold courtesy, and accepted with quiet dignity. The men did not shake hands; each understood the position too clearly for that. They could never be friends; but, as they were honorable gentlemen, all enmity was at end between them, for rivalry does not necessarily entail hatred. Then they spoke of the trial, and their conversation lasted until the hour of the opening of the court.
Millicent, escorted by Henry Deering, arrived at the court just as Graham and Galbraith entered the room together. She saw Graham whisper something to the lawyer, who bowed courteously in answer. The significance of the action was not lost upon her,--her revelation had not been made in vain. She now heard her name called in a loud, harsh voice. She started violently, but did not stir from her seat.
"Come," said Hal, "you must go up to that little platform and answer all the questions they ask you."
She walked quietly to the place indicated, took the customary oath "to speak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," and answered the preliminary questions in a low voice.
"What is your name?"
"Millicent Almsford."
"Where were you born?"
"In Venice."
"What state?"