"Why, he died in the county jail, not long after I was tried!" exclaimed Challoner, who was now reading the newspaper clipping. "Poor chap, the confinement killed him, I imagine. Well, I never killed Hargraves, and I'm going to prove it, somehow." He leaned over and kissed a tiny bit of ruffle. "I'm going to prove it for you and the little one."
"Laurie," insisted Miriam, quivering, "are you sure?"
"I was never surer of anything in my life than this," replied Challoner. "I tell you, it has all come back to me like a flash. It was you, little one," he said, bending once more over something imaginary in his arm, "that brought it back to me."
Miriam had watched him closely.
"Yes, yes," she conceded, "it is true, I can see it—I know." And sobbing, dropped her head upon his shoulder.
"I've got to prove it," he repeated over and over again, patting her head affectionately.
"But—Murgatroyd—why, if you were innocent ..." suddenly cried Miriam.
"Well?"
"He ought to know it."
"What do I care about Murgatroyd! What do I care about anybody but you and the little one that is coming—coming to you and to me!"