view as one of the possibilities of the "case."

Left by myself, I began to feel uneasy about Naomi. I went upstairs,
and, knocking softly at her door, made my inquiries from outside. The
clear young voice answered me sadly, "I am trying to bear it: I won't
distress you when we meet again." I descended the stairs, feeling my
first suspicion of the true nature of my interest in the American girl.
Why had her answer brought the tears into my eyes? I went out, walking
alone, to think undisturbedly. Why did the tones of her voice dwell on
my ear all the way? Why did my hand still feel the last cold, faint
pressure of her fingers when I led her out of court?

I took a sudden resolution to go back to England.

When I returned to the farm, it was evening. The lamp was not yet
lighted in the hall. Pausing to accustom my eyes to the obscurity
indoors, I heard the voice of the lawyer whom we had employed for the
defense speaking to some one very earnestly.

"I'm not to blame," said the voice. "She snatched the paper out of my
hand before I was aware of her."

"Do you want it back?" asked the voice of Miss Meadowcroft.

"No; it's only copy. If keeping it will help to quiet her, let her keep
it by all means. Good evening."

Saying these last words, the lawyer approached me on his way out of the
house. I stopped him without ceremony; I felt an ungovernable curiosity
to know more.

"Who snatched the paper out of your hand?" I asked, bluntly.

The lawyer started. I had taken him by surprise. The instinct of
professional reticence made him pause before he answered me.

In the brief interval of silence, Miss Meadowcroft replied to my
question from the other end of the hall.

"Naomi Colebrook snatched the paper out of his hand."

"What paper?"

A door opened softly behind me. Naomi herself appeared on the
threshold; Naomi herself answered my question.

"I will tell you," she whispered. "Come in here."

One candle only was burning in the room. I looked at her by the dim
light. My resolution to return to England instantly became one of the
lost ideas of my life.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "what has happened now?"

She handed me the paper which she had taken from the lawyer's hand.

The "copy" to which he had referred was a copy of the written
confession of Silas Meadowcroft on his return to prison. He accused his
brother Ambrose of the murder of John Jago. He declared on his oath
that he had seen his brother Ambrose co