His impulse was to sweep her into his arms and comfort her, but he lacked the courage of his desire. Every fibre of him was hungry for her, but he looked at her impassively without speaking. The tragic gravity of her told him that she had come as a judge and not as a lover. When the guard had gone she asked her question: “You didn’t do it, did you?” His throat ached with tightness. There was nothing he could say to comfort her. He could not even, on account of the others, tell her the truth and let her decide for herself the extent of his guilt. “Tell me you didn’t do it!” she demanded. Beneath the tan he was gray. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you everything. But I can’t talk—even to you.” “Can’t talk!” she echoed. “When you are accused of—of this horrible thing, aren’t you going to tell everybody that it is a lie?” He shook his head. “It isn’t so simple as that. I can’t talk about the case because——” “I’m not asking you to talk about the case. I’m asking you to tell me that you’re innocent—that it’s all an awful mistake,” she ended with a sob. “If you’ll only trust me—and wait,” he began desperately. “Some day I’ll tell you everything. But now—I wish I could tell you—I wish I could.” “You mean that you don’t trust me.” “No. I trust you fully. But the charge against me lies against others, too. I can’t talk.” “You can’t even tell me that you didn’t murder two men in their sleep?” Her voice was sharp. All the pain and torture of the long night rang out in it. He winced. “I’ll have to trust to your mercy to believe the best you can of me.” “What can I believe when you won’t even deny the charge? What else is there to think but that——” She broke off and began to whimper. He took a step toward her, but a swift gesture of her hand held him back. “No—no! You can’t trust me. That’s all there is to it—except that you’re guilty. I’d never have believed it—never in the world—not even after what I know of you.” Rowan longed to cry out to her to have faith in him. He wanted desperately to bridge the gulf that was growing wider between them, to have her see that he had closed the door behind him and must follow the course he had chosen. But he was dumb. It was not in him to express his feeling in words. Into the delicate white of her cheeks excitement had brought a stain of pink. Eagerly she poured out her passionate protest: “You don’t mean me to think—surely you can’t mean—that—that—you did this horrible thing! You couldn’t have done it! The thing isn’t possible. Tell me you had nothing to do with it.” He felt himself trapped in a horrible ambuscade. He would not lie to her. He could not tell the truth. If she would only have faith in him—— But there was no chance of that. To look at the hostile, accusing gaze of this girl was to know that he had lost her. She had demanded of him a confidence that was not his to give, a pledge of innocence he could not make. “I’m sorry,” he said again.