To Durgan it seemed strange and terrible that here, in these splendid mountain solitudes, the edge of such a shameful thing should enter his own life. Below the rock, the forest in glossy leaf breathed in the perfect sunlight; rank below rank stood shining trees like angelic hosts in pictures of heaven. The air was filled with the lullaby of unseen herd-bells. Afar, where the valley widened and purpled, the mountain stream, in quiet waters, was descried, and sunny fields. Before Durgan's mind lay the daily papers of the time of the notorious trial of Hermione Claxton--the sensational headlines, the discursive leaders. In his ears echoed the universal conversation of that time--voices in street-cars, hotels, and streets. The natural horror of brutal deeds, which had made him recoil then, darkened his outlook now like a cloud. But in the midst of this obscurity upon all things two figures stood, a moving vision--Bertha, fresh and beautiful, faulty and lovable, and beside her the fragile sister, gray-haired and upright, with steadfast face turned heavenward. Alden spoke first. "You are aware, Mr. Durgan, that Mr. Claxton and his second wife were suddenly killed, that a large body of circumstantial evidence proved that Hermione was alone in the house with them, that by her own arranging she was alone with them--in fact, I must say there was complete circumstantial proof that she had committed the heinous crime. There was even motive, if just anger and love of money are motive enough. Against this stood, I may say, only her personality, for so reticent and modest is she that few know her character. To my mind, it is a great honor to America that the twelve ordinary men who formed the jury could be so impressed by her personality that, while the whole world hooted, they were resolute in a verdict of acquittal." "It was you--your eloquence that did it." "So the world said; but I only appealed to their sense of truth, and out of the truth of their hearts they pronounced her 'not guilty.' You are aware, Mr. Durgan, that the world pronounced another verdict." Durgan would have been glad to be silent. In the rush of his thought he was conscious that he chose the most childish thing to say. "But--but--someone must have done it." When Alden did not seem to find this remark worthy even of assent he hastened, stumbling, to explain it. "I would be understood to mean that, familiar as you were with them, it is hardly possible that you do not suspect, do not, perhaps, know, who might be guilty. I am not, of course, asking you who--I have not the slightest right to ask--but----" "Do you suggest that, while the whole nation was roused, and rightly, to demand justice, I screened the sinner? Mr. Durgan, I come of Puritan descent. So strongly do I feel the wickedness of lax justice that if my own son had done it I would have led him to the scaffold."