I spoke very fast, not daring to look at him after the first, but pretending to smooth out some wrinkles in one of my long gloves.  My eyes were full of tears, and I was afraid they’d go splashing down my cheeks, if I even winked my lashes.  I loved him more than ever now, and felt capable of forgiving him anything, if only I had the chance to forgive, and if only, only he really loved me and not that other.

“Thank you, a hundred times—­more than I can express,” he said, with a faint quiver in his voice—­his beautiful voice, which was the first thing that charmed me after knowing him.  “It does cheer me to see you.  It gives me strength and courage.  You wouldn’t have come if you didn’t—­trust me, and believe me innocent.”

“Why, of course, I—­we—­believe you innocent of any crime,” I faltered.

“And of any lack of faith?”

“Oh, as for that, how can—­but don’t let’s speak of that.  What can it matter now?”

“It matters more than anything else in the world.  If only you could say that you will have faith!”

“I’ll try to say it then, if it can give you any comfort.”

“Not unless you mean it.”

“Then—­I’ll try to mean it.  Will that satisfy you?”

“It’s better than nothing.  And I thank you again.  As for the rest, you’re not to be anxious.  Everything will come right for me sooner or later, though I may have to suffer some annoyances first.”

“Annoyances?” I echoed.  “If there were nothing worse!”

“There won’t be.  I shall be well defended.  It will all be shown up as a huge mistake—­another warning against trusting to circumstantial evidence.”

“Is there nothing we can do then?  Or—­that we would urge others to do?” I asked, hoping he would understand that I meant one other—­Maxine de Renzie.

I guessed by his look that he did understand.  It was a look of gloom; but suddenly a light flashed in his eyes.

“There is one thing you could do for me—­you and no one else,” he said.  “But I have no right to ask it.”

“Tell me what it is,” I implored.

“I would not, if it didn’t mean more than my life to me.”  He hesitated, and then, while I wondered what was to come, he bent forward and spoke a few hurried words in Spanish.  He knew that to me Spanish was almost as familiar as English.  He had heard me talk of the Spanish customs still existing in the part of California where I was born.  He had heard me sing Spanish songs.  We had sung them together—­one or two I had taught him.  But I had not taught him the language.  He learned that, and three or four others at least, as a boy, when first he thought of taking up a diplomatic career.

They were so few words, and so quickly spoken, that I—­remembering the warder—­almost hoped they might pass unnoticed.  But the man in uniform came nearer to us at once, looking angry and suspicious.