that
I had something of importance to talk about, led the way over into the
square where we found a deserted bench in a shady spot. It was a
joyous morning of flickering sunlight and a pleasant commotion of
hurrying people and moving traffic was all about us, in the midst of
which we seemed unusually isolated. As I have related, there was a
warm friendship between us. The girl knew that her mission at the
Manor during Jerry's darkest hour had been an open book to me, but the
fact that I knew that she had failed in it had made for no loss of
pride. She knew too, I am sure, that I was aware of the real nature of
her feelings for Jerry, but my own interest in and affection for them
both had given me privileges in her friendship possessed not even by
Jerry himself.

I wasted no words, though I chose to be careful in my use of them.
With some deliberation, born of the difficulties of this second
embassy, I told her all that I knew of Jerry's affair with Marcia Van
Wyck, beginning with the parts of it which she knew, and leading by
slow degrees to the moment when Jerry had abandoned his guests at the
Manor and gone on his madman's quest of vengeance through the woods. I
recalled to her the state of his mind, the indubitable evidences of
his innocence, and then told of Jerry's meeting with Marcia and Lloyd
by the spring in the pine wood. She sat, leaning slightly forward, her
gaze on the sunlit arch, her finely-drawn profile clearly outlined
against the shadows of the bushes, saying nothing, listening as though
to a twice-told tale. I could not tell all, but something in her
calmness advised me that she had already guessed. There was knowledge
in her eyes, not the hard knowledge one sees in the eyes of the women
of the streets, but knowledge tempered with pity; wisdom tempered with
charity for all sin, even for Jerry's. She did not speak for a long
while and by this token I think she wished me to take her
understanding for granted.

"Mr. Canby," she said at last softly. "I know something of the world,
more, I think, in a way than you do, and the more I learn, the less I
am inclined to judge. But of all the women in the world with whom I
come in contact, the most dangerous, the most difficult to help, is
the hypocrite. When a woman is weak one can pity. When she is defiant
one can even admire, but the hypocrite is beyond the pale. She will
fawn while her heart is untouched, she will assent while her mind is
eluding you. And