this crime, Professor Kennedy."

"Are you prepared to swear before _me_." almost shouted Kennedy, his
eyes blazing, "that you were never served properly by your wife's
lawyers in that suit?"

The man cringed back as if a stinging blow had been delivered between
his eyes. As he met Craig's fixed glare he knew there was no hope.
Slowly, as if the words were being wrung from him syllable by
syllable, he said in a muffled voice:

"No, I perjured myself. I was served in that suit. But--"

"And you swore falsely before Kimmel that you were not?" persisted
Kennedy.

"Yes," he murmured. "But--"

"And you are prepared now to make another affidavit to that effect?"

"Yes," he replied. "If--"

"No buts or ifs, Thurston," cried Kennedy sarcastically. 'What did you
make that affidavit for? What is _your_ story?"

"Kimmel sent for me. I did not go to him. He offered to pay my debts
if I would swear to such a statement. I did not ask why or for whom. I
swore to it and gave him a list of my creditors. I waited until they
were paid. Then my conscience"--I could not help revolting at the
thought of conscience in such a wretch, and the word itself seemed to