"You think he had a fair trial?" he asked, flirting the leaves of the printed case. "It seems to me he had." "No," she answered, "he did not...." And then she went on to give her reasons why she thought this, ending with: "The three witnesses out of the crowd--the three men who were procured by the police, and who swore they saw Ilingsworth fire the shot--those men lied." The Governor started. "Isn't it rather queer that Counsellor Higgins should have harped on that very thing! You've talked to Higgins this morning, or perhaps some other time, about this case, haven't you?" "I have talked to no one," was her answer, and, somehow, the Governor felt that she spoke the truth. "Leaving out the question of those three men," he went on, "there's enough proof--the gun, the threats--to have convicted him on circumstantial evidence." "Another reason is," she continued, heedless of his remark, "that the influence of Peter V. Wilkinson, and especially," she hesitated for an instant, "the testimony of Miss Leslie Wilkinson were too strong in the case--too much importance was attached to them." At the mention of Leslie's name the Governor winced. Not so much because of her connection with the case, but he blamed himself for permitting his thoughts, for one instant, to rest on this woman to the exclusion of the other. "Their testimony," he argued, "was entitled to weight. It was true; and it established these threats ... I can't see...." But there was such genuine distress and anguish on her face, and she seemed to be advocating such a losing cause that he pitied her, and was wondering just how he could assist her, when suddenly she leaned closer to him, her breast swelling, heaving against the polished surface of the table; and placing her ungloved hand upon his, while with the other she pushed towards him a closely-written memorandum, she said in soft, swelling tones: "Governor Beekman, I know this man is innocent. See what I have done: This is a list of men who have been sent to death by juries, courts of appeals, in times past--innocent men, like Ilingsworth, condemned by the world, while living, and acquitted only when it was too late. This man Ilingsworth is not guilty, I say," she concluded, tightening her grasp on his arm, while her gaze held his. The Governor's frame thrilled at her touch. "I would not say this, Governor Beekman," she resumed, still holding his glance, "if I were not desperate, but if there is anything I can do for you, if there's anything in my power to give, I'll do it if you will set this man free." The Governor felt the warmth of her hand through his sleeve, yet there was nothing of the temptress in her touch, but rather she had become a desperate woman, the apotheosis of self-sacrifice, a Monna Vanna, stopping at nothing to gain her virtuous object. "I don't know you," she went on softly, with downcast eyes, "but if there's anything about me--do with me----"