"Of course. They’ve worked it out this way"—I leaned over the table, my voice low, giving him the details of their new theory. As I told it there was something terrible in those eyes. All the kindness went out of them and a fire came in its place till they looked like crystals with a flame behind them. When I finished he spoke and this time his voice sounded different, hoarse and muffled: "Have they made any plan? Decided on their next step?" "They’ve got it all arranged," and I went on about the interview that was planned for the next morning. "With her thinking herself safe the way she does, they’re sure they can give her such a jolt she’ll lose her nerve and tell." He gave an exclamation, not words, just a choked, fierce sound, and dropping his hands on the table, burst out like a volcano: "The dogs! The devils! Dragging her down there to terrify a lie out of her!" He leaped to his feet, sending the chair crashing down on the floor. I fell back where I sat paralyzed, not only by his words, but at the sight of him. I think I’ve spoken of the fact that he had a violent temper and he’s told me himself that he’s conquered it. But now for the first time I saw it and _believe me_ it was far from dead. I would hardly have known him. His face was savage, his eyes blazing, and the words came from him as if they were shot out on the breaths that broke in great heaving gasps from his lungs. "Haven’t you," he said, "a woman, any heart in you? Are you, that I’ve always thought all kindness and generosity, willing to hound an innocent girl to her ruin?" He grabbed the back of a chair near him and leaned over it glaring at me, shaking, gasping, and the color of ashes. "But—but," I faltered, "she’s _done_ it." "She hasn’t," he shouted. "You’re all fools, imbeciles, mad. It’s a lie—an infamous, brutal lie!" He dropped the chair and turned away, beginning to pace up and down, his hands clenched, raging to himself. The room was full of the sound of his breathing, as if some great throbbing piece of machinery was inside him. And I—there in my seat, fallen limp against the back—saw it all. What a fool I’d been—what an _idiot_! He with his empty heart and that beautiful girl—the girl that any man might have loved and how much more Jack Reddy, knowing her poor and lonesome and believing her innocent and persecuted. I felt as if the skies had fallen on me. My hero—that I’d never found a woman good enough for—in love with a murderess! He stopped in his pacing and tried to get a grip on himself, tried to speak quietly with his voice gone to a husky murmur: "Tomorrow do you say? Tomorrow they’re going to do this damnable thing?" "Tomorrow at ten in Mr. Whitney’s office," I answered, weak and trembling.