"I cannot understand," he said, and I saw by his flushed face that he was genuinely angry, "how you could have got the preposterous idea that Marcia Lawrence was connected in any way with this affair. Any sane man would have seen the utter absurdity of such a theory." "I see it now," I assented hoarsely. "Why, Marcia Lawrence could no more be concerned in a thing like that," he went on hotly, "than--than a babe unborn. She could not be concerned in anything wrong, or mean, or criminal. I want you to understand, Mr. Lester, that she's absolutely spotless. If you knew her, I shouldn't need to tell you." "I've always believed it," I protested. "In my heart of hearts, I've always believed it. We've been fools--we've been trying to make two things fit which didn't fit. We imagined they must fit because they happened so close together. I see now that it was merely a coincidence, and I'm glad from the very bottom of my heart." "You believed, then, that Miss Lawrence was really concerned in this murder?" "We thought her the active party in it." "The active party! But on what grounds?" "We thought the dead man was her husband--an adventurer who'd lured her into a marriage while she was abroad. You'll remember I mentioned this theory to you the other night." "Yes, and I told you at the time how ridiculous I thought it." "I've never wholly believed it," I repeated. "It wasn't mine. But it seemed to fit the facts so perfectly, and when you intimated this afternoon, as I thought, that Miss Lawrence was subject to spells of insanity, I imagined that I understood the whole story." He sat for a moment silent, regarding me from half-closed eyes; I saw that he was considering whether he should speak or remain silent. "I hope this mistake has gone no farther," he said, at last. "No," I answered, and genuinely thankful I was that I could say so. "I kept it absolutely to myself." He breathed a sigh of relief. "Then no harm has been done. I'm glad of that. I see that you're glad, too." "Yes," I said; "I am--more glad than I can say." "And now that you understand the matter," he continued, "I suppose you see it in a different light?" "In a different light?" "At least, you'll hardly advise now that I keep silent?" "By no means," I asserted heartily. "I think it is clearly your duty to tell all you know. You will absolve Harriet Kingdon from responsibility for her act--as you said, change loathing to pity. Besides, if the dead man deserved death, let the world know it." "I don't know that he did," corrected my companion; "I know nothing about him." "But you suspect?" I prompted. "Perhaps I do," he admitted, "but suspicion uttered is such a deadly thing! What I do know came to me in the way so many things come to a minister. I was asked for advice--I received a confidence----" He stopped and pondered for a moment.