“Gilman,” he said, “have a pardon made out for Thomas Whalen.” This answer to Handy’s threats was punctuated by a flash from the governor’s eyes. “And Gilman--” the governor continued. “Yes, sir.” “Wire that woman--what’s her name?” “Barry?” “Yes--Barry--wire her to come. I think I shall prefer to tell her myself.” Handy dropped, heavy with exhaustion, into his chair. He tried to speak, but had trouble with his articulation. When he mastered his tongue, he could only blurt: “Now you have done it, haven’t you?” “Yes,” said the governor in gentle assent, “I have done it.” The sigh that ended this remark was one in which a heart-burdening care was dissipated. It was a sigh that resolved a vast difficulty. When the woman came the next morning, Gilman led her at once into the governor’s presence. Before him lay a large document, lettered in preposterous script, lined in red ink. The woman knew this imitation parchment to be the pardon of Thomas Whalen. The governor rose and stood until she had seated herself, and then said, drawing the pardon on the desk to him, “I have decided to grant the application for Whalen’s pardon.” The woman’s fingers clawed the carved arms of the chair. Gilman stared with parted lips. The governor continued as he hastily scanned the pardon: “I take this action because circumstances recently revealed lead me to believe that Whalen is innocent.” The governor dipped his pen in the ink. “They form a very abstruse proposition,” he said, poising his pen nicely in his fingers, “and I am not sure that every one can grasp it.” The governor spoke meditatively. The two persons in the room silently regarded him. Something in the man, in the moment, impelled awe. He set his hand to the paper to write, but paused an instant longer. His eyes wandered from the document. As he raised them over her, the woman bowed her head. Out through the open window, out through the summer morning, over the wimpling foliage of the trees, far, far away they gazed. And then he sighed, as a woman sighs, and turning, signed the pardon of Thomas Whalen. A moment he sat still as an ancient statue, and then dropping the pen on the desk, he turned toward Gilman with a smile. The action relieved the young man from the spell which bound him. “Are you going before the people with that story I worked up?” he cried. Fiercely, without awaiting a reply to a question already answered, he wheeled on the woman. “Do you see what he has done? He has given up all--he has killed himself! He says Whalen is innocent--and doesn’t even know upon whom to fasten suspicion! Don’t you--my God, woman--can’t you see?” Slowly the situation was borne in upon her understanding. Her mouth opened with a gasp, her eyes widened. “Why!” she said, jerking her words from a choking throat. “He knows who did it. I told him. It was--me.” The door latch clicked behind her. She turned in the direction whence came the sound, and repeated, as if the interrupter contradicted her: