A fierce anger surged in Mortimer's heart; it was true, then—his disgrace had been too much for Allis. The other had won; but it was too cruel to kiss him.
Crane faced about, and coming forward, held out his hand to the man of distrust. “I hope you'll forgive me.”
Mortimer sprang to his feet, shoving back his chair violently, and stood erect, drawn to his full height, his right hand clenched fiercely at his side. “Shake hands? No, a thousand times no!” he muttered to himself.
Crane saw the action, and his own hand dropped. “Perhaps I ask too much,” he said, quietly; “I wronged you—”
Mortimer set his teeth and waited. There were great beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his broad chest set his breath whistling through contracted nostrils. A pretty misdirected passion was playing him. This was why they had sent for him—the girl he would have staked his life on had been brought to believe in his guilt, and had been won over to his rival. Ah—a new thought; his mind, almost diseased by unjust accusation, prompted it—perhaps it was to save him from punishment that Allis had consented to become Crane's wife.
“But I believed you guilty—” Mortimer started as Crane said this “now I know that you are innocent, I ask—”
Mortimer staggered back a step and caught at the chair to steady himself. He repeated mechanically the other's words: “You know I'm innocent?”
“Yes, I've found the guilty man.”
“Then Alan—oh, the poor lad! It's a mistake—you are wrong. The boy didn't take the money—I took it.”
Crane looked at him in admiration, an indulgent smile on his lips.