“Say nothing more, and do nothing more; I accept your apologies,” I said. “When I tell you that I refuse to submit to the opinion of the Scotch Jury, I mean exactly what my words express. That verdict has left a stain on my husband’s character. He feels the stain bitterly. How bitterly no one knows so well as I do. His sense of his degradation is the sense that has parted him from me. It is not enough for _him_ that I am persuaded of his innocence. Nothing will bring him back to me--nothing will persuade Eustace that I think him worthy to be the guide and companion of my life--but the proof of his innocence, set before the Jury which doubts it, and the public which doubts it, to this day. He and his friends and his lawyers all despair of ever finding that proof now. But I am his wife; and none of you love him as I love him. I alone refuse to despair; I alone refuse to listen to reason. If God spare me, Mr. Dexter, I dedicate my life to the vindication of my husband’s innocence. You are his old friend--I am here to ask you to help me.” It appeared to be now my turn to frighten _him._ The color left his face. He passed his hand restlessly over his forehead, as if he were trying to brush some delusion out of his brain. “Is this one of my dreams?” he asked, faintly. “Are you a Vision of the night?” “I am only a friendless woman,” I said, “who has lost all that she loved and prized, and who is trying to win it back again.” He began to move his chair nearer to me once more. I lifted my hand. He stopped the chair directly. There was a moment of silence. We sat watching one another. I saw his hands tremble as he laid them on the coverlet; I saw his face grow paler and paler, and his under lip drop. What dead and buried remembrances had I brought to life in him, in all their olden horror? He was the first to speak again. “So this is your interest,” he said, “in clearing up the mystery of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death?” “Yes.” “And you believe that I can help you?” “I do.” He slowly lifted one of his hands, and pointed at me with his long forefinger. “You suspect somebody,” he said. The tone in which he spoke was low and threatening; it warned me to be careful. At the same time, if I now shut him out of my confidence, I should lose the reward that might yet be to come, for all that I had suffered and risked at that perilous interview. “You suspect somebody,” he repeated. “Perhaps!” was all that I said in return. “Is the person within your reach?” “Not yet.” “Do you know where the person is?” “No.” He laid his head languidly on the back of his chair, with a trembling long-drawn sigh. Was he disappointed? Or was he relieved? Or was he simply exhausted in mind and body alike? Who could fathom him? Who could say?