"I did not think that harm would fall on Constance." Yet even before she had finished speaking, a change came over Thorpe, and his grip on her wrist loosened. A victim of doubt and suspicion, his moods were as changing and variable as the coloring of a chameleon. Apparently he was not yet satisfied of the complete innocence of his wife or of the truthfulness of his sister, for he said, in a voice saddened by reflection: "That does not explain your connection with the abduction of Dorothy." "I have them with me," she muttered, appreciating the importance of clearing herself. "Yes, they are here," and she hastily produced from her corsage an envelope having had the foresight to preserve them as most precious testimony in case of need. The moment had come and found her prepared. Handing him the two notes, with a winsome expression of thankfulness, she said: "Read them, John, this one first, and you will know why I was in the cabin." She had handed to him the two notes received from George Golda, though in reality they had been penned by his colleague, Rutley. The first note asked for a meeting in the City park. The second demanded the amount of ransom that night on penalty of removal of Dorothy. "The time was urgent in the extreme," she continued. "Unable to secure the amount of ransom demanded, I resolved to go alone to the cabin, determined to rescue Dorothy." "You entered then." "But you were not alone; Constance was with you," he corrected. "When I told her my purpose, she pleaded so hard. Oh, so hard to go with me, that I could not deny her. I have told you all." John Thorpe was not the only listener to Virginia's pleading. Intensely interested, neither of them noticed Sam Harris approach, and with him the little Scotch terrier, which had completely recovered from its painful experience on the launch at Ross Island. When he first caught sight of them confronting each other, he gave a low whistle of surprise, and then, as he drew near to address them, involuntarily he heard her last words. His eyelids twitched with pleasure as he listened to the idol of his heart vindicate Constance. Smothering a cry of joy, he turned and at once withdrew, muttering to himself: "Lord, how light my heart feels! Virginia is doing the right thing now, I guess. Come, Doctor"--the name he had given to the dog--"we'll leave them for awhile, eh?" And the brown eyes of the grateful canine looked up at him with almost human intelligence and affection. John Thorpe's demeanor had undergone a great change in the few minutes he had listened to Virginia. His frigid haughtiness had softened, through successive stages, to a gentleness bordering on compassion. "I will take care of these," said he, in a voice of tenderness, as he placed the notes in his pocket. "But, oh, God in Heaven! What shall I say to my beloved wife?"