“Tell me candidly, sir,” she said at last, “whether, if I owned to you that the notes were given to me by a—­a person, whom I cannot, if I would, produce, to purchase various articles at different shops, and return him—­the person I mean—­the change; and that I made oath this was done by me in all innocence of heart, as the God of heaven and earth truly knows it was, it would avail me?”

“Not in the least,” I replied, angry at such trifling.  “How can you ask such a question?  We must find the person who, you intimate, has deceived you, and placed your life in peril; and if that can be proved, hang him instead of you.  I speak plainly, Miss Eccles,” I added in a milder tone; “perhaps you may think unfeelingly, but there is no further time for playing with this dangerous matter.  To-morrow a true bill will be found against you, and your trial may then come on immediately.  If you are careless for yourself, you ought to have some thought for the sufferings of your excellent friend, Mrs. Davies; for your nephew, soon perhaps to be left friendless and destitute.”

“Oh spare me—­spare me!” sobbed the unhappy young woman, sinking nervelessly into a seat.  “Have pity upon me, wretched, bewildered as I am!” Tears relieved her, and after awhile, she said, “It is useless, sir, to prolong this interview.  I could not, I solemnly assure you, if I would, tell you where to search for or find the person of whom I spoke.  And,” she added, whilst the lines about her mouth of which I have spoken, grew distinct and rigid, “I would not if I could.  What indeed would it, as I have been told and believe, avail, but to cause the death of two deceived innocent persons instead of one?  Besides,” she continued, trying to speak with firmness, and repress the shudder which crept over and shook her as with ague—­“besides, whatever the verdict, the penalty will not, cannot, I am sure, I know, be—­be”—­

I understood her plainly enough, although her resolution failed to sustain her through the sentence.

“Who is this brother—­James Eccles, he calls himself—­whom you saw at the police-office, and who has twice been here, I understand—­once to-day?”

A quick start revealed the emotion with which she heard the question, and her dilated eyes rested upon me for a moment with eager scrutiny.  She speedily recovered her presence of mind, and with her eyes again fixed on the floor, said in a quivering voice, “My brother!  Yes—­as you say—­my brother.”

“Mrs. Davies says you have no brother!” I sharply rejoined.

“Good Mrs. Davies,” she replied in a tone scarcely above a whisper, and without raising her head, “does not know all our family.”

A subterfuge was, I was confident, concealed in these words; but after again and again urging her to confide in me, and finding warning and persuasion alike useless, I withdrew, discomfited and angry, and withal as much concerned and grieved as baffled and indignant.  On going out, I arranged with the governor that the “brother,” if he again made his appearance, should be detained, bongre malgre, till my arrival.  Our precaution was too late—­he did not reappear; and so little notice had any one taken of his person, that to advertise a description of him with a reward for his apprehension was hopeless.