“I know you for what you really are, George Iredale. And now I have come to you to give you the chance of defending yourself. No man must be condemned without a hearing. Neither shall you. The evidence against you is overwhelming; I can see no escape for you. But speak, if you have anything 292 to say in your defence, and I will listen. I charge you with the murder of Leslie Grey.”
Just for one brief moment Iredale felt a shiver pass through his body. The icy tones of the girl’s voice, the seemingly dispassionate words filled him with a horror unspeakable. Then he pulled himself together. He was on his defence before the one person in the world from whose condemnation he shrank. He did not answer at once. He wished to make no mistake. When at last he spoke his words came slowly as though he weighed well each syllable before he gave it utterance.
“With one exception all that Hervey has doubtless said of me is true. I am a smuggler; I inspired that line in the paper; but I am no––murderer. Leslie Grey’s life was sacred to me at the time if only for the reason that he was your affianced husband. I loved you at that time as I have loved you for years, and all my thoughts and wishes were for your happiness. It would have made you happy to have married Grey, therefore I wished that you should marry him. I am quite unchanged. I will tell you now what neither you nor Hervey knows, even though it makes my case look blacker. I knew that Grey was on my track. I knew that he had discovered my secret. How he had done so I cannot say. He quarrelled with me, and, in the heat of his anger, told me of his intentions. It was late one night at a card-party at your house, and just before he was so foully murdered. No doubt you, or any right-minded person for that matter, will say that this evidence only clinches the case against me. But, in spite of it, I assert my innocence. Amongst my many sins the crime Hervey 293 charges me with”––he purposely avoided associating the charge with her––“is not numbered. Can I hope that you will believe me?”
The gentle tones in which the burly man spoke, the earnest fearlessness which looked out from his quiet eyes, gave infinite weight to all he said. Prudence shook her head slowly, but the fire in her eyes was less bright, and the voice of her own heart crying out began to make itself heard in the midst of her chaotic thought.
She tried to stiffen herself for the task she had undertaken, but the result was not all she sought Still, she replied coldly––
“How can I believe with all the black evidence against you? You, in all this region, were the one man interested in Leslie’s death. His life meant penitentiary to you; his death meant liberty. Your own words tell me that. How can I believe such a denial as you now make? Tell me, have you no proof to offer? Account for the day on which Leslie met his death; prove your movements upon that day.”
The girl’s denial of belief was belied by the eagerness in her voice. For one brief instant a flash of hope rose in her. She saw a loophole for her lover. She longed to believe him. But the hope died down, leaving her worse distracted for its coming.
For Iredale did not speak, and his face assumed a look of gloom.
“Ah, you cannot––you cannot,” she went on hysterically. “I might have known, I did know.” A world of passion again leapt into her eyes. Then something of the woman broke through her anger, 294 and a heart-breaking piteousness sounded in her voice. “Oh, why, why did you do this thing? Why did you stain your hands with such a crime as murder? What would his living have meant to you? At worst the penitentiary. Was it worth it to destroy thus the last chance of your immortal soul? Oh, God! And to think of it! A murderer!” Then the fierce anger became dominant once more. “But you shall not escape. Your crime shall be expiated as far as human crimes can be expiated. The gallows awaits you, George Iredale, and your story shall be told to the world. You shall hang unless you can give to judge and jury a better denial than you have given to me.” She suddenly broke off. A whistling indrawn breath startled the man before her. She gazed round her wildly; she had remembered what she had come for. She had forgotten when she had talked of “judge and jury.” Her face assumed a ghastly hue at the recollection. Her eyes alone still told of the madness that possessed her.
Nor was Iredale without an uneasy feeling at what he saw––that catch of breath; that hunted look as she gazed about the room. Intuition served him in the moment of crisis. What was the meaning? Why was that hand concealed in her dress? There was only one possible answer to such questions, and he read the answer aright.