"The slayer of your dearest friend; of your inseparable companion;
of the one person who stood next to your son in your affections
and regard!"

He put up his hand. The gesture, the way he turned his face aside
showed that she had touched the raw of a wound still unhealed.
Insensibly, the woman in her responded to this evidence of an
undying sorrow, and modulating her voice, she went on, with just a
touch of the subtle fascination which made her always listened to:

"Your feeling for Mr. Etheridge was well known. THEN WHY SUCH
MAGNANIMITY TOWARDS THE MAN WHO STOOD ON TRIAL FOR
KILLING HIM?"

Unaccustomed to be questioned, though living in an atmosphere of
continual yes and no, he stared at the veiled features of one who
so dared, as if he found it hard to excuse such presumption. But
he answered her nevertheless, and with decided emphasis:

"Possibly because his victim was my friend and lifelong companion.
A judge fears his own prejudices."

"Possibly; but you had another reason, judge; a reason which
justified you in your own eyes at the time and which justifies you
in mine now and always. Am I not right? This is no court-room; the
case is one of the past; it can never be reopened; the prisoner is
dead. Answer me then, as one sorrowing mortal replies to another,
hadn't you another reason?"