“I said nothing that was not justified.” “You insulted my mother. I lost my temper. I hated you. We always hate those whom we have wronged. I struck you. You fell, and you must have knocked your head against the pile of planks lying in the enclosure; you never moved. I examined you. I could have sworn you were dead--I was afraid--I thought of inquests. I knew the whole truth would come out. I had not meant to kill. So I took you and buried you temporarily, while I considered what I should do afterwards. I went back to the house and told my mother. She would not believe me. She thought I had been dreaming. I do frequently have bad nightmares. And certain things that occurred afterwards made even me suspect that after all I had been dreaming. It was not until you came again that I----” “And even your mother believed then, eh?” said Jetsam. “Your mother believed too suddenly. She saw me and she believed! And the result was paralysis! I ought to have broken it to her more gently. That would have been perhaps better for all of us--perhaps better!” There was a pause. And Jetsam added, as if communing with himself: “How she hated me! How she hates me still! even to-night, if some one had not interfered in time----” He could not get away from the amazing tenacity of Mrs. Ilam’s purpose. “You wish to speak?” said Carpentaria, who had been observing the woman’s eyes; the eyes were blinking nervously. He began the alphabet again, and her message ran thus: “I do not hate him; but I love my son. To-night I thought Josephus was in danger. That was why--revolver. I always acted for my son. I love him!” These sentiments, so unmistakably clear in their significance, took some time to transmit. Mrs. Ilam appeared to be exhausted. But after a few moments she continued: “Where is Rosie? She helped him. I want to know why.” The men exchanged glances. “Why did she help you?” Carpentaria asked of Jetsam. “Better ask her!” replied Jetsam curtly. Carpentaria did not hesitate an instant. He went to the door, opened it, and called Rosie, and his voice resounded through the well of the staircase and the empty rooms. And then Rosie came from; downstairs, like an apparition. She had been crying. “Mrs. Ilam wants you to explain why you have been helping Mr. Jetsam,” said Carpentaria, as she entered. “Helping him in what?” Rosie parleyed timidly. “In his plans----” “Against me,” Ilam added. “I only helped him in his plans for justice,” said Rosie. “But why?” “Because I was sorry for him. Because there is something in his tone--because--oh! if he has told you all, are you not all sorry for him? When I think of what his life has been----” She stopped and burst into tears. “But my hair is grey,” murmured Jetsam. “How can you possibly be interested in me? What does it matter what happens to me? My life is over.”