The president nodded. Sigsbee brought himself erect in his chair, a frown chiseled between his brows. “Why, surely, Miss Breen,” he said anxiously, “this affair cannot interest you.” “On the contrary, Mr. Sigsbee, it is of vital interest to me,” she answered swiftly. “The man whom you have accused Mr. Nash of murdering was my brother!” Sigsbee could only sit and gasp; the others about the long table leaned forward in their chairs. So abrupt and startling was the announcement that in the hush which followed one might have heard the dropping of a pin. “Your brother?” It was the president who first regained his voice. “Yes,” said Miss Trask. “And this man”--indicating Nash--“this man killed him?” “That is what Mr. Sigsbee would have us believe,” the girl answered quietly. “But we have it from his own lips,” broke in Hooker, who, up to the present, had remained dumb. “Nash told me himself that----” “I know,” Miss Trask nodded. “I, too, have heard it from his own lips. He told me last night--just before the detectives arrived from Los Angeles.” “And he knew, at the time, that you intended arresting him?” asked the president. “Yes.” “Then why----” “Why am I defending him??” Miss Trask interrupted. “Because there has been a mistake--a horrible mistake. Mr. Nash is as innocent of the crime as any one in the room.” Nash caught at his breath, staring dumbly, wonderingly, into her face. What motive, he asked himself, had prompted Miss Trask to change so abruptly? “Until this morning--an hour ago,” Miss Trask continued, “I believed his confession. Then I received a wire from New York saying that one of the aqueduct engineers, dying, has confessed to the murder. I did not understand at first, but after a time it became clear to me. Mr. Nash had a quarrel with my brother; a gun was fired somehow. The shot cut across my brother’s cheek. I distinctly remember, because he was brought home, and remained there for a week. Two weeks later he was engaged in another fight--and this one proved fatal. Mr. Nash believed all the time--as I did at first--that he was responsible; that it was in his quarrel my brother had met his death. My brother was quick-tempered, and he provoked the fight. I want Mr. Nash to be freed of all blame.” Nash listened as a man in a dream, and finally, when Miss Trask had finished, and had smiled upon him, he spoke: “The fight took place in a café,” he said, bringing back the vivid picture. “It was a harmless one at first. We began sparring; he dropped to the floor. Then he jerked out a gun--I was unarmed. But suddenly a shot rang out behind me, your brother cried out, and when I looked down his face was bathed in crimson. Somebody grabbed me, forced me out of the room. They told me my opponent was dying, and that I must run for it. Explanations were useless.” Nash stopped, and looked around at the circle of interested faces.