When they told her that the confession of the crime had been written down in the stolen diary of the murdered man by Percy Seabright’s own hand, she was still obstinate. She could not credit the statement, she said, unless they let her read it with her own eyes. They were afraid to trust her with it, fearing that devotion to her master would lead her to attempt the destruction of the book. She was informed that portions of the diary would be read at the trial. And so the fateful day had arrived, and within the next hour throngs would be wending their way to the court-room to listen to one of the most sensational trials ever heard in Boston--a trial that was to dissipate the dark shadow of crime and disgrace from innocent lives, and fix it indelibly upon the real criminal. Popular interest ran high, and the beautiful Mrs. Vale was regarded as a suffering angel. As for her daughter, brave Italy, she was the heroine of the hour. Had she not believed in her mother and done valiant battle with public opinion until she had unearthed the cunning, hidden criminal? Why, it was a deed worthy of all praise, all honor. At last she had made good her proud boast to the lawyer. A few more hours or days and the hideous crime would be brought home to the criminal, and the world would be ringing with the story of the traitor’s deeds--the vile wretch whose murderous hand had struck down the friend he loved--and punishment would be meted out to him--such punishment as may dwell in a maniac’s horror-haunted cell. Italy was thinking of all this as she sat alone in Mrs. Mays’ bright little parlor that morning just an hour before the trial--thinking of what she had accomplished by the force of an unbending will. There was a sad vein blending with the thoughts of her victory. Deep in her brave, true heart lay a love as strong and enduring as life itself, and this love was cruelly wounded and pained. “Does he think that I am blind? Oh, why does he not speak?” she thought bitterly. “Ah, once I thought he loved me, but it was the maddest mistake of my whole life. Dear Heaven, how shall I bear it, this torturing pain of hopeless love?” Burning tears sparkled into the beautiful, sad, dark eyes, and she murmured: “I will call pride to my aid, and he shall never know the pain I suffer from his cold indifference!” At that moment the door opened softly, and Emmett Harlow entered the parlor. His handsome boyish face was eager and agitated, and in his hand he carried a letter with a foreign postmark. “Oh, Italy, such news!” he cried, and he was so excited he did not see her wipe the tears hastily away. “I have a letter from Paris--from Percy Seabright’s bride--is not that a surprise?” “Why should she write to you?” cried the girl, in wonder. “She has just read in a paper the news about her husband’s arrest for murder, and far from being sorry over it, she seems to find in it a cause for exultation. She adds another item to the list of his crimes.”