“And I wanted to come to you yesterday as soon as I read that dreadful piece in the paper,” went on Alexie. “But Aunt Ione would not let me. Oh, I am dreadfully afraid she believes that sailor, she and Alys both, but I am going to steal away soon and get Ralph to bring me over to Winthrop to see you and Italy. Keep up heart, my dear friend, for I believe Mr. Murray may be yet alive, and that he will return to you some day and prove all those charges false.” While they were yet lingering over those kindly letters a card was brought in for Italy. It bore Mr. Gardner’s name. She went to him at once where he was waiting in the library, and he rose with a face full of sympathy. “I read the papers yesterday and to-day,” he said. “Ah, Italy, it is noble in you, this loyal faith in Francis Murray.” She looked him keenly in the face. “And you?”--she asked. “Is your confidence unchanged?” “My God, yes, my trust is shaken,” he answered, with an agitated face. “Look, Italy, what if it be true? Remember he was the man that told me the story defaming your mother! What if he invented it himself to throw suspicion on her? What if he was the sole author of the slander?” He was wildly agitated, his nerves shaken, his suspicions awakened against the man he had once believed so noble. But her eyes flashed indignantly at his words. “You are wrong, all wrong! You shall not lay that sin on Francis Murray! He is not here to defend himself, so I must speak for him! And listen, Mr. Gardner; I hurl back in your teeth the suspicion of his guilt! How dare you be so untrue to him?” she panted angrily. He gazed at her with kindling admiration, and answered earnestly: “I thought you would be glad to have your mother proved innocent!” “Glad! Why, I would give my life!” she answered in a voice of heart-piercing eagerness, and again he thought, admiringly, that her loyal faith in Francis Murray was admirable. Before he could reply she spoke again, impulsively: “I tell you now, Mr. Gardner, as I told you before, that there is a hidden foe behind all this. The sailor was a hired agent, the confession was a forgery. Come, you have pretended to be Francis Murray’s friend. Lend yourself to the task of clearing his name. You know the best detectives in the city. Employ the best one. Set him on the track of this unknown sailor, and, perhaps, we may at last unearth the most cunning and deep-dyed criminal the world ever knew! Ah, help me, help me,” and she held out her white, helpless little hands to him with an imploring sob. He could not resist her prayer. He took the outstretched hands and clasped them with fatherly tenderness. “I will do what I can, Italy,” he answered, and she thanked him with a burst of grateful tears. “Heaven has begun to take pity on me at last!” she cried, and implored him not to lose faith in Francis Murray. “Above all, do not let his mother know that you have had your faith shaken for an instant,” she added, and he promised that he would not.