Harley was unable to answer this question, and he looked at Hobart as if to indicate the one who would reply. The "mystery" man did not seek to evade his responsibility in the least, and promptly said: "Mr. Boyd, I think you will acquit us of any intention to intrude upon you. It was the best of motives that brought us to you. I have always had an interest in cases of this sort, and when I heard of yours in the train, coming here, I received an impression then which has been strengthened on my arrival in Grayville. I believe you are innocent." The boy looked up. A sudden flash of gratitude, almost of hope, appeared in his eyes. "I am!" he cried. "God knows I didn't kill Bill Wofford. He wuz my partner and we wuz like brothers. We did quarrel that mornin'--I don't deny it--and we both had been liquorin'; but I'd never hev struck him a blow of any kind, least of all a foul one." "Was it not true that you were found with the bloody knife in your hand, standing over his yet warm body?" asked Hobart. "It's so, but it was somebody else that used the knife. Bill went on ahead, and when I come into the place I saw him on the floor an' the knife in 'im. I was struck all a-heap, but I did what anybody else would 'a' done--I pulled the knife out. And then the fellers come in on me. I was rushed into a trial right away. Of course, I couldn't tell a straight tale; the horror of it was still in my brain, and the effect o' the liquor, too. I got all mixed up--but before God, gen'lemen, I didn't do it." His tone was strong with sincerity, and his expression was rather that of grief than remorse. Harley, who had had a long experience with all kinds of men in all kinds of situations, did not believe that he was either bad or guilty. Hobart spoke his thoughts aloud. "I don't think you did it," he said. "Everybody believes I did," said Boyd, with pathetic resignation, "and I am to be hanged for it. So what does it matter now?" "I am going to look for the guilty man," said Hobart, decidedly. Boyd shook his head and lay back on his pallet. The others, with a few words of hope, withdrew, and, when they were outside, Harley said: "Hobart, were you not wrong to sow the seed of hope in that man's mind when there is no hope?" "There is hope," replied Hobart; "I have a plan. Don't ask me anything about it--it's vague yet--but I may work it." Harley glanced at him, and, seeing that he was intense and eager, with his mind concentrated upon this single problem, resolved to leave him to his own course; so he spent part of the day, a wonderful autumn Sunday, in a rocking-chair on the piazza of the hotel, and another part walking with Sylvia. He told her of the murder case and Hobart's action, and her prompt sympathy was aroused. "Suppose he should really be innocent?" she said. "It would be an awful thing to hang an innocent man."