The two fond, foolish creatures went at once into Boston on this mission. But if there is one thing under heaven that the editor of a great daily paper abhors, it is to own himself in the wrong--to publish one day a startling, sensational story, and to announce on the next that it was all a mistake, that he had been victimized. And to do this special editor justice, it could not be said that he was mistaken, for Mrs. Murray, on his rigid cross-examination, could deny nothing, the sailor’s visit, nor the written confession, signed in Francis Murray’s hand. She could only assert, with passionate vehemence, her disbelief of the whole story, declaring it a plot to ruin her son. The editor blandly promised to give publicity to her opinion to-morrow, and expressed himself as sorry that the sailor’s story had gotten into print, since there were grave doubts as to its credibility. Since Miss Vale herself, and here he bowed admiringly to the beautiful, dark-eyed girl, took Mr. Murray’s part, of course the sailor’s statements could not be reliable. They returned sadly enough to Winthrop, and waited eagerly for the next day’s paper with its promised vindication of their beloved one. But it was very disappointing. The wary editor was not going to spoil his sensation or weaken its effect by casting doubts on the sailor’s credibility. It was quite in the light of another sensation that it chronicled interviews with the mother and ward of Francis Murray. Naturally, it said, Mrs. Murray was unwilling to believe in her son’s guilt, and Miss Vale, who had been, it was said, his affianced, also believed he was innocent. It was quite true that the blameless life of the accused went a long way toward proving him guiltless, yet Mrs. Vale’s life had been fair, too--so fair that the jury had pronounced her not guilty, although the world had held quite a different opinion. Well, both were dead now--Ronald Vale’s wife and kinsman--and the world would have to decide which was guilty, the woman who had denied it, or--the man who had confessed it with his dying lips. And so the clever editor, pretending to keep his promise to the two women, only got in another sensational article, and managed to leave on the public mind his own conviction that Mrs. Murray and Italy were very weak and silly, and that there could not be any reasonable doubt of Francis Murray’s guilt. The morning’s mail brought to Mrs. Murray letters from Ralph Allen and his sweetheart, Alexie, both breathing profoundest sympathy and undying belief in her son’s innocence.