"But I suppose it makes some difference to you," he cried, impatiently,
"to know that I didn't."

"I suppose it would," she admitted, slowly, "if I thought much about it."

"Well, won't you think?" he pleaded---"just to oblige me."

"Perhaps I will, when you're gone; but at present I have to give my mind
to getting you away. It was to talk about that that I came this morning."

Had she wanted to slip out of giving an opinion on the subject of his
guilt, she could not have found a better exit. The means of his ultimate
escape engrossed him even more than the theme of his innocence. When she
spoke again all his faculties were concentrated into one keen point of
attention.

"I think the time has come for you to--go."

If her voice trembled on the last word, he did not notice it. The pose of
his body, the lines of his face, the glint of his gray eyes, were alive
with interrogation.

"Go?" he asked, just audibly. "When?"

"To-morrow."

"How?"

"I'll tell you that then."