“But it is not a question as between Mr. Fair and me,” answered Mrs. Fair. “The simple and horrible fact is I killed a man yesterday—a Cuban named Pablo Mendes—a wretch who had blasted my life. He dared to pursue me even into my protector’s house. He heaped the foulest insults upon Mr. Fair and the children and me—so, in a mad access of frenzy and horror, I shot and instantly killed him. I desire to give myself up to the police. What shall I do, sir?”
Marshall was walking up and down now with his hands clasped behind his back, and for several moments he did not answer. Then he said as he stood confronting her: “If there were no witnesses, and the man can be proved to have been your traducer and persecutor, it would not be difficult to set up a powerful defense. He invaded your house, demanded money, threatened you—or, wait, wait—I have it! On failing to extort the money, he attacked you, and you, having anticipated just such an assault, had taken the precaution to be armed—and shot him down for the blackguard he was. Why, my dear Mrs. Fair, a jury would acquit you without leaving the courtroom.”
“Ah, but the facts are not as you state them,” cried Mrs. Fair, rising and grasping the old man’s hand feverishly. “There was no attack. And, oh, sir, I did it! I did it! I say I! Take me to the police—and make them believe that it was I—or—or—well, I can’t tell you now, but unless you make them believe me, something most horrible will occur. Do this—do this, Mr. Marshall, for God’s sake.”
“But we must consider this from every side,” replied Marshall, getting Mrs. Fair into a seat again and continuing his walk. “Give me a little time to think it out. Could you manage to return early in the morning? You are evidently very ill. Rest will refresh you—and, moreover, nothing can be done wisely tonight.”
“Very well—but tell me that you believe me—tell me that,” implored Mrs. Fair, rising to go. She was indeed nearly at the end.
“Of course I must accept your statement,” answered Marshall with much gentleness. “Yet it by no means follows that the consequences need be what you apprehend. Allow me to show you down to your carriage.”
“Here is my statement,” she said as she placed a document on the table and took the arm which the old solicitor offered her. “Act upon it, sir—it is a woman’s last story—written in her blood and that of her children. Act upon it, sir, act upon it—no matter what Mr. Fair says.”
“I promise nothing, madam,” replied Marshall, leading her to the door. “You are in no condition to take the best or the wisest view of this most incredible affair. Depend upon it, I shall act only for your best interest and that of Mr. Fair. Come.”
He led her down to the street and, after seeing her safely to her carriage, slowly retraced his steps into the quiet precincts of the Temple. When about to enter the door at the foot of his worn stairs, two men came walking quickly from the thoroughfare without, and one of them, recognizing him, said: “This is my friend Allyne—Lord Linklater’s son, you know, Mr. Marshall. May we have a few minutes of your time?—very urgent matter!”
“Travers?” said Marshall as he caught sight of his face under the gas lamp. “What on earth brings you to this old graveyard at this time? I know your honored father, Lord Linklater, Mr. Allyne. Come up, gentlemen.”