Dan frowned, but the frown was not for Rose.  She had already betrayed herself; he was confident from her manner that she knew.  The prompt denial of any knowledge of the fateful sheet of paper for which he had hoped all night had not been forthcoming.  But mere assumptions would not serve him; he had walked in darkness too long not to crave the full light.  The pathos of this girl’s loyalty had touched him; her chance in life had been the slightest, she had been wayward and had erred deeply, and yet there were fastnesses of honor in her soul that remained unassailable.

Her agitation distressed him; he had never seen her like this; he missed the little affectations and the droll retorts that had always amused him.  She was no longer the imperturbable and ready young woman whose unwearying sunniness and amazing intuitions had so often helped him through perplexities.

“As a matter of your own honor, Rose, you wouldn’t tell me.  But if the honor of some one else—­”

She shook her head slowly, and he paused.

“No,” she said.  “I’m only a poor little devil of a stenog and I’ve been clear down,—­you know that,—­but I won’t do it.  I turned down Thatcher’s ten thousand dollars, and I turned it down hard.  The more important that letter is, the less I know about it.  I’ll go into court and swear I never saw or heard of it before.  I don’t know anything about it.  If you want me to quit, it’s all right; it’s all right, Mr. Harwood.  You’ve been mighty good to me and I hate to go; but I guess I’d better quit.”

He did not speak until she was quite calm again.  As a last resource he must shatter her fine loyalty by an appeal to her gratitude.

“Rose, if some one you knew well—­some one who had been the kindest of friends, and who had lent you a hand when you needed it most—­were in danger, and I needed your help to protect—­that person—­would you tell me?”

Their eyes met; she looked away, and then, as she met his gaze again, her lips parted and the color deepened in her face.

“You don’t mean—­” she began.

“I mean that this is to help me protect a dear friend of yours and of mine.  I shouldn’t have told you this if it hadn’t been necessary.  It’s as hard for me as it is for you, Rose.  There’s a great deal at stake.  Innocent people will suffer if I’m unable to manage this with full knowledge of all the facts.  You think back, six years ago last spring, and tell me whether you have any knowledge, no matter how indefinite, as to where that letter was written.”

“You say,” she began haltingly, “there’s a friend of mine that I could help if I knew anything about your letter?  You’ll have to tell me who it is.”

“I’d rather not do that; I’d rather not mention any names, not even to you.”

She was drying her eyes with her handkerchief.  Her brows knit, she bent her head for an instant, and then stared at him in bewilderment and unbelief, and her lips trembled.