“Oh, I am certain,” she protested.  “I asked the question, not for that reason, but to know if you could really prove his innocence, if you choose.  Now, I find you can.  When I read the papers this afternoon, at first I wanted to rush off to the police and tell them where he had been while the murder was being committed.  But I didn’t know how long he had stopped in your house, and, besides—­”

“You would have dared to do that!” I broke in, the blood, angry blood, stinging my cheeks more hotly than it stung hers.

“It wasn’t a question of daring,” she answered.  “I thought of him more than of you; but I thought of you, too.  I knew that if I were in your place, no matter how much harm I might do to myself, I would confess that he had been in my house.”

“There are reasons why I can’t tell that he was there,” I said, trying to awe her by speaking coldly and proudly.  “His visit was entirely on business.  But Mr. Dundas understands why I must keep silence, and he approves.  You know he has remained silent himself.”

“For your sake, because he is a gentleman—­brave and chivalrous.  Would you take advantage of that?”

“You take advantage of me,” I flung back at the girl, looking her up and down.  “You pretend that you came from Mr. Dundas with a pressing message for me.  Do you want me to believe this his message?  I think too well of him.”

“I don’t want you to believe that,” she answered.  “I haven’t come to the message yet.  I have earned a right to speak to you first, on my own account.”

“In twelve minutes I must be on the stage,” I said.

“The stage!” she echoed.  “You can go on acting just the same, though he is in prison—­for you!”

“I must go on acting.  If I didn’t, I should do him more harm than good.”

“I won’t keep you beyond your time.  But I beg that you will do him good.  If you care for him at all, you must want to save him.”

“If I care for him?” I repeated, in surprise.  “You think—­oh, but I understand now.  You are the girl he spoke of.”

She blushed deeply, and then grew pale.

“I did not think he would speak of me,” she said.  “I wish he hadn’t.  But, if you know everything, the little there is to know, you must see that you have nothing to fear from any rivalry of mine, Mademoiselle de Renzie.”

“Why,” I exclaimed, “you speak as if you thought Ivor Dundas my lover.”

“I don’t know what you are to each other,” she faltered, all her coolness deserting her.  “That isn’t my affair—­”

“But I say it is.  You shall not make such a mistake.  Mr. Dundas cares nothing for me, except as a friend.  He never did, though we flirted a little a year ago, to amuse ourselves.  Now, I am engaged to marry a man whom I worship.  I would gladly die for him.  Ivor Dundas knows that, and is glad.  But the other man is jealous.  He wouldn’t understand—­he would want to kill me and himself and Ivor Dundas, if he knew that Ivor was in my house last night.  He was there too, and I lied to him about Ivor.  How could I expect him to believe the real truth now?  He is a man.  But you will believe, because you are a woman, like myself, and I think the woman Ivor Dundas loves.”