"Will you hold your tongue?" said Tempest impatiently. "How do you know this, Ducane? Do you mean to say we've hung an innocent man? Who killed Ogilvie if it wasn't Robison?"
"Oh, my God!" said Dick, in nearer prayer than he had used in his life before. But he could not keep his eyes from that brown, bending face in the feeble light.
Ducane lifted himself on his elbow.
"I don't want Robison's blood on my hands," he said. "And after all, it was his business, wasn't it? Not mine. If he loved her enough—he said a girl shouldn't suffer that penalty."
"But you haven't told me who it was," said Tempest gently.
"Oh, haven't I?" said Ducane. "It was Grange's Andree."
Dick had expected that name. But he felt the chill run along his blood as he heard it. Tempest stared in utter maze.
"Andree?" he said slowly. Then his voice thickened. "Who dared invent that devilish lie? Was it you? By , if you did"
"No, no," screamed Ducane, frightened out of his pain. "I didn't. It's true. You'll see it all in the paper. Robison promised her at the time that he'd take the punishment if it was found out. But he wanted masses said for his soul. He wanted them said for a martyr, not a murderer. That's why he gave me the paper. And I don't want his blood"
The impish devil in Dick was laughing at the mockery of this. Robison's sacrifice had been epic, but it had failed in such a poor feeble way. Failed because of the man's vanity. He could not bear that some unknown priest should give his name to his gods as a murderer's name. And then he shuddered, seeing behind this something of the futility of human plans.
Tempest stood up.
"Where is that paper?" he asked.
Dick's ever-nimble mind was working instantly. While Tempest's voice held that tone he was not to be trusted with any paper of importance. For the moment Dick
