ry and bully her.

"I wish you wouldn't come to these rooms, Zoe," he said. "I've
told you before they're bachelors' apartments, and they don't like
women about the place. What is it? What do you want?"

"I was brought here last time without any particular desire on my
part," she answered, looking him in the face. "I've come now to
ask you what accursed plot this is against Stephen Laverick? What
were you doing in the court this morning, lying? What is the
meaning of it, Arthur?"

"If you've come to talk rubbish like that," he declared roughly,
"you'd better be off."

"No, it is not rubbish!" she went on fearlessly. "I think I can
understand what it is that has happened. They have terrified you
and bribed you until you are willing to do any despicable thing--even
this. Your father was good to my mother, Arthur, and I
have tried to feel towards you as though you were indeed a relation.
But nothing of that counts. I want you to realize that I know the
truth, and that I will not see an innocent man convicted while the
guilty go free."

He moved a step towards her. They were on opposite sides of the
small round table which stood in the centre of the apartment.

"What do you mean?" he demanded hoarsely.

"Isn't it plain enough?" she exclaimed. "You came to my rooms a
week or so ago, a terrified, broken-down man. If ever there was
guilt in a man's face, it was in yours. You sent for Laverick. He
pitied you and helped you away. At Liverpool they would not let
you embark--these men. They have brought you back here. You are
their tool. But you know very well, Arthur, that it was not Stephen
Laverick who killed the man in Crooked Friars' Alley! You know very
well that it was not Stephen Laverick!"

"Why the devil should I know anything about it?" he asked fiercely.

A note of passion suddenly crept into her voice. Her little white
hand, with its accusing forefinger, shot out towards him.

"Because it was you, Arthur Morrison, who committed that crime," she
cried, "and sooner than another man should suffer for it, I shall
go to court myself and tell the truth."

He was, for the moment, absolutely speechless, pale as death, with
nervously twitching lips and fingers. But there was murder in his eyes.

"What do you know about this?" he muttered.

"Never mind," she answered. "I know and I guess quite enough to
convince me--and I think anybody else--that you are the guilty man.
I would have helpe