“THIS,” he replied with a sudden change of manner, as though angry with himself for his transient relenting. “This! that oftentimes it happens that the only mercy we can show the guilty, is _not_ to bring them to trial! To openly recognize guilt, is to be obliged to punish it. If we distinctly accuse, we are bound to prove, and if we prove, to condemn and sentence.” “And is my case such a one?” “Your case is such a one.” “Yet still I beg to be tried! For if _not_ to try them is often the only way to save the guilty, to _try_ them is oftener the only way to clear the innocent. Accuse me—hear my defence, and be yourself my judge. I ask no other.” “Of what avail were it to rehearse your acts of falsehood and treachery. You know them this moment even better than I do.” “Falsehood and treachery—just Heaven!” “Yes, madam, those were the words I used.” “You are mistaken in attributing such wickedness to me but tell me the grounds of your suspicions; doubtless I can explain them, and clear myself.” He laughed a scornful, sardonic laugh, and replied, “Oh, doubtless a woman of your diplomatic genius is fertile in explanations. Whether you could by possibility clear yourself, is another question; for I speak—not of suspicions but of positive knowledge.” His strong conviction of her turpitude infected her with despair at last. She said, very mournfully— “I know that it has sometimes happened that the innocent have been tried and convicted—overwhelmed by a mass of circumstantial evidence—and that may be my case; nevertheless, even they have had the poor satisfaction of knowing for what they suffered. Tell me, I beseech you. I will still hope that I can acquit myself. Not for my own sake, Archer, dear Archer—but for yours: it must be so agonizing to be forced to think ill of one we have loved as you once loved me. I suffer very much in the loss of your esteem, but were it possible for our cases to be reversed—were I forced to think evil of you, I do not know, indeed I do not know how I could go on with daily life at all!” “I think you had better cease discoursing and retire, your diplomatic talent is not in high action this morning; you permit your words to betray you.” “To betray me!” “Yes, madam; for if you felt yourself to be innocent, would you not necessarily think very ill of me for treating you as a guilty woman?” “No! no! I know that to have condemned me so promptly, so unequivocally, you must have, what you think, proof positive against me. But produce it! I am innocent; indeed I am, Archer. I believe in Heaven’s justice. I believe that if I call on the Lord, He will sooner or later, in His own good time, enable me to prove it.” “I _will_ produce the testimony,” he said, going to an escritoir, opening it and taking from it a note in a gray envelope. Returning to his seat, he laid it before her, asking “Is this your hand-writing?”