“Madam,” I said as solemnly and impressively as I could speak the words, “in two minutes you will be before your God. Are you willing that your soul should face its Maker with the black stain upon it of the dreadful lie you have told? For your own immortal soul’s sake, I implore you to tell the truth.”
A feeble gesture called her husband to her side. I rose and retired across the room. He bent over her, shaken by great sobs. She drew him down to her, kissed him and whispered, “It was not he.”
I almost fell. The revulsion of feeling was too great. Mastering myself by a supreme effort, I stood to hear the colloquy to the end.
“Who was it?” he asked.
She told him.
“You swear to this?”
“With my dying breath.”
He turned to me with a face of ashen paleness. “Doctor,” he gasped, “pardon.”
I snapped shut the case of my watch. “Madam,” I said, “you will recover,” and left the room and house unmolested.
No one spoke for a moment. Then Carvill ejaculated under his breath, “My God!”