“I am not crazy!  You’ve got an innocent man locked up in there, and I, who am guilty and tell you so, you will not arrest.  It is you who are crazy.  Let me in!”

Alvin Mead laid a rough hand on Madelon’s shoulder.  “Now you look at here, gal,” said he.  “I’ve had about all this darned nonsense I’m a-goin’ to stan’.  That chap is in jail for murder, an’ in jail he’s a-goin’ to stay till I git orders from somebody besides you to let him out.  An’ what’s more, don’t you come here on no sich tom-fool arrant agin.  If you do you won’t git in.  I ain’t no objection to gals he was goin’ to marry ef he hadn’t broke the laws comin’ to see him a leetle spell, if they’ll go away peaceable when they’re bid, but as for havin’ sech highstericky work as this, I’ll be darned if I will.  Now I can’t stan’ here foolin’ no longer; you’d better be gittin’ right along home, an’ don’t you break this other gal’s neck with that old stepper you’ve got out there.”

Madelon Hautville said not another word.  She went out of the jail quickly, and she and Dorothy were soon in the sleigh and flying down the road.  The old racer was not so old nor so weary that the impetus of the homeward stretch failed to stir him—­for a mile or so, at least.  After that his pace slackened, and then Madelon turned to the other girl, who looked up at her with a kind of piteous defiance.  “What did you say to him?” she demanded.

“I—­begged him—­if he—­did not kill Lot to—­say so,” replied Dorothy, faintly; then she shrank and quivered before the other girl, who started wrathfully, half as if she would fling her from the sleigh.

“If he did not kill Lot to say so!” repeated Madelon. “If he did not!  You know he did not.”

“He would not tell me so,” said Dorothy, with her stubbornness of meekness, and her blue eyes met Madelon’s, although there were tears welling up in them.

“Tell you so!” cried Madelon.  “What are you made of, Dorothy Fair?”

“He would not,” repeated Dorothy.  “If he was innocent, why should he not have told me if he loved me?”

Madelon looked at her.  “You don’t love him!” she cried out, sharply.  “You don’t love him, and that’s why.  You don’t love him, Dorothy Fair!”

Dorothy flushed red and drew herself up with gentle stiffness.  “You cannot expect me to unveil my heart to you,” said she.

“You have betrayed it,” persisted Madelon.  “You don’t love him, Dorothy Fair!  Shame on you, after all!”

“What right have you to say that?” demanded Dorothy, and this time with some show of anger.

“The right of another woman who does love him, and would save his life,” Madelon answered, fiercely.  “The right of a woman who can love more in an hour than such as you in a lifetime!”

“You—­don’t know—­”

“I do know.  You don’t love him or you would not have distrusted him.  You would have made him tell you the truth.  You would have flung your arms around him, and you would not have let him go until he told you.  Did you do that?  Answer me:  did you do that?”