"No," acknowledged he. "But I know what must have been in his mind when he died. I know what he would have done, had he lived to do it. Dearest, I shouldn't have hesitated to sacrifice my own life for him. I was more like a son to him than a secretary. And had I been with him when he died, I know he would have imposed silence on me."
"Then the men in his office—they know the murderer and he asked them not to tell?" An expression of astonishment overspread her face.
"No," he answered. "They don't know. They've told the truth."
"Horace,"—her voice grew persuasive—"Horace, you mustn't think of yourself alone now. I can't bear to think of you imprisoned in this place. For my sake you must leave it and clear yourself of this accusation."
He shook his head sadly.
"If you knew all the circumstances you'd approve my course."
"But I don't know them—and it's torturing me." For the first time her features showed the anguish she was suffering. He saw and was moved.
"Listen!" His eyes searched the corridor and the adjoining cells. Seeing no one but the indifferent trusty who was too far away to overhear, Beard continued: "Mr. Whitmore loved Mrs. Collins, as you already know. Were scandal to break over her head—if I did not sacrifice myself to prevent it—it would be the vilest ingratitude to an employer whose memory I venerate."
"Then you are protecting Mrs. Collins?" Her frame throbbed with the conflict of agonized emotions. "Mrs. Collins!" she repeated, as if afraid that he had misunderstood.
"Yes," he answered resignedly. "I know I am doing precisely what Mr. Whitmore would have asked, me to do. And now, dear, please don't press me farther. I can't tell you more—not at this time. When all this shall have been forgotten, when Mr. Whitmore's death ceases to occupy the public and the police, then I'll tell you everything."