The following day punctually at noon, in obedience to the mandate of the Governor, three men marched into the waiting-room at the Capitol. Two were men in uniform; one in civilian's dress.
"You can go right in," said the secretary, nodding to them. And passing into the Governor's private office they found him at his desk, signing some papers. In a corner sat Miss Madeline Braine. One of the uniformed officers stood at attention, waiting until the Governor should look up.
"This is Giles Ilingsworth, sir," he said at length.
Instantly the Governor raised his eyes and looked at the prisoner—a man whose hair was turning grey, whose aspect was pathetically hopeless. And steeling himself against the sight—for it was within the range of possibility that all murderers looked this way, guilty or not,—he ordered him to sit down, and pointing to a seat, he added:
"Mr. Ilingsworth, take this chair, please."
The chair had been placed so that the light shone full upon the face of the condemned man. And the instant that Ilingsworth had seated himself, some new expression crossed the face of the Governor as unconsciously he placed his hand against his forehead. In an instant, however, he had removed it, and his glance went from Ilingsworth to the young woman sitting in the corner, at the same time motioning to her to come forward.
"Mr. Ilingsworth," he began gently, "the fact that I have consented to see you is due to your friend, Miss Madeline Braine."
The prisoner turned an expressionless countenance toward the girl.
"My friend, Miss Madeline Braine!" he exclaimed, his hand, too, creeping along his own forehead. "I have no friend of the name Braine."
"You may not know her by that name, but this is the lady," said the Governor.