"And what do you suggest now?" she asked, in a voice that had sunk to a whisper.
He looked at her steadily. He had screwed up his courage to the sticking point. Could he count upon an equal fortitude in her?
"It is the finish, old girl. You say the detectives are waiting outside. Bryant has got a good case, and the diary will hang us. There is no getting over that."
"You propose——" she said falteringly.
He spoke quite steadily. The end had come, he had made up his mind, so far as regards himself.
"We neither of us want to hang for the murder of Hugh Murchison?"
She shuddered, and hid her face with her hands. "Oh, that awful evening! It has been like a nightmare ever since."
"I know," said Dutton soothingly. "It was one of my fatal mistakes. But it is no use crying over spilt milk. To-night we are face to face with facts. We have gambled, and we have lost, and we have got to pay the penalty."
The wretched woman rose up, and wrung her hands. "And to think I might have been the Countess of Southleigh."
"I know; don't think I am not reckoning up all that," replied Dutton. "But we have got to deal with facts to-night, with the detectives waiting outside. The game is up, you know that as well as I do. We have only a few hours before us, perhaps a few minutes, in which to make the choice."