"I'm not surprised to hear that," was the somewhat puzzled reply.

"He was guilty, Andrew, not only of the murder of this man, his
partner, but of innumerable other crimes and brutalities,"
Francis went on. "He is a fiend in human form, if ever there was
one, and I have set him loose once more to prey upon Society. I
am morally responsible for his next robbery, his next murder, the
continued purgatory of those forced to associate with him."

"You're dotty, Francis," his friend declared shortly.

"I told you I was crazy," was the desperate reply. "So would you
be if you'd sat opposite that woman for half-an-hour, and heard
her story."

"What woman?" Wilmore demanded, leaning forward in his chair and
gazing at his friend with increasing uneasiness.

"A woman who met me outside the Court and told me the story of
Oliver Hilditch's life."

"A stranger?"

"A complete stranger to me. It transpired that she was his
wife."

Wilmore lit a cigarette.

"Believe her?"