thus answering her husband's
last question. "I heard the cry, and ran to the balcony at once.
That--that is all."

"But what did you see from the balcony?" asked Major Swan.

"It was night, and of course--it--it was dark," she answered.

"Surely not dark, Lady O'Moy? There was a moon, I think--a full moon?"

"Yes; but--but--there was a good deal of shadow in the garden, and--and
I couldn't see anything at first."

"But you did eventually?"

"Oh, eventually! Yes, eventually." Her fingers were twisting and
untwisting the handkerchief they held, and her distressed loveliness was
very piteous to see. Yet it seems to have occurred to none of them that
this distress and the minor contradictions into which it led her were
the result of her intent to conceal the truth, of her terror lest it
should nevertheless be wrung from her. Only O'Moy, watching her and
reading in her every word and glance and gesture the signs of her
falsehood, knew the hideous thing she strove to hide, even, it seemed,
at the cost of her lover's life. To his lacerated soul her torture was a
balm. Gloating, he watched her, then, and watched her lover, marvelling
at the blackguard's complete self-mastery and impassivity even now.

Major Swan was urging her gently.

"Eventually, then, what was it that you saw?"

"I saw a man lying on the ground, and another kneeling over him, and
then--almost at once--Mullins came out, and--"

"I don't think we need take this any further, Major Swan," the president
again interposed. "We have heard what happened after Mullins came out."

"Unless the prisoner wishes--" began the judge-advocate.

"By no means," said Tremayne composedly. Although outwardly impassive,
he had been watching her intently, and it was his eyes that had
perturbed her more than anything in that court. It was she who must
determine for him how to proceed; how far to defend himself. He had
hoped that by now Dick Butler might have been got away, so that it would
have been safe to tell the whole truth, although he began to doubt how
far that could avail him, how far, indeed, it would be believed in the
absence of Dick Butler. Her evidence told him that such hopes as he may
have entertained had been idle, and that he must depend for his life
simply upon the court's inability to bring the guilt home to him. In
this he had some confidence, for, knowing himself innocent, it seemed
to him incredible that he could be proven guilty. Failing that, noth