“Do you think he will, Eric?” asked Aunt Lil.

“I hope so with all my heart,” he answered.  But his face showed that he was deeply troubled, and my heart sank down—­down.

As I realised more and more the danger in which Ivor stood, my resentment against him began to seem curiously trivial.  Nothing had happened to make me feel that I had done him an injustice in thinking he cared more for Maxine de Renzie than for me—­indeed, on the contrary, everything went to prove his supreme loyalty to her whose name he had refused to speak, even for the sake of clearing himself.  Still, now that the world was against him, my soul rushed to stand by his side, to defend him, to give him love and trust in spite of all.

Down deep in my heart I forgave him, even though he had been cruel, and I yearned over him with an exceeding tenderness.  More than anything on earth, I wanted to help him; and I meant to try.  Indeed, as the talk went on while that terrible meal progressed, I thought I saw a way to do it, if Lisa and I should act together.

I was so anxious to have a talk with her that I could hardly wait to get back to our own hotel, from the Ritz.  Fortunately, nobody wanted to sit long at lunch, so it wasn’t yet three when I called her into my room.  The men had gone to make different arrangements about starting, for we were not to leave Paris until they had had time to do something for Ivor.  Uncle Eric went to see the British Ambassador, and Aunt Lilian had said that she would be busy for at least an hour, writing letters and telegrams to cancel engagements we had had in London.  For awhile Lisa and I were almost sure not to be interrupted; but I spoke out abruptly what was in my mind, not wishing to lose a minute.

“I think the only thing for us to do,” I said, “is to tell what we know, and save Ivor in spite of himself.”

“How can anything you know save him?” she asked, with a queer, faint emphasis which I didn’t understand.

“Don’t you see,” I cried, “that if we come forward and say we saw him in the Rue d’Hollande at a quarter past twelve—­going into a house there—­he couldn’t have murdered the man in that other house, far away.  It all hangs on the time.”

“But you didn’t see him go in,” Lisa contradicted me.

I stared at her. “You did.  Isn’t it the same thing?”

“No, not unless I choose to say so.”

“And—­but you will choose.  You want to save him, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s innocent.  Because he’s your friend.”

“No man is the friend of any woman, if he’s in love with another.”

“Oh, Lisa, does sophistry of that sort matter?  Does anything matter except saving him?”