“There’s the claw-bar, that the devil done it with,” he said.

“You can tell it’s just been handled by the way the rust’s rubbed off.”

It was conclusive evidence.  Everybody could see how the workman’s hands, as he labored with the claw-bar to draw the spikes, had cleaned off the rust.

I hurried the motor away.  We raced up the long winding road to Crewe’s country-house, sitting like a feudal castle on the summit.  And I wondered, at every moment, how I could keep my promise.  The boy was a criminal, deserving to be hanged, no doubt, but the naked mother’s heart that had dabbed against my fingers overwhelmed me.

Almost in a flash, I thought, we were in the grounds and before Crewe’s house.  Then I noticed lights and a confusion of voices.  No one came to meet us.  And we got out of the motor and went in through the open door.  We found a group of excited servants.  An old butler began to stammer to Marion.

“It was his heart, Miss . . . the doctor warned the attendants.  But he got away to-night.  It was overexertion, Miss.  He fell just now as the attendants brought him in.”  And he flung open the library door.

On a leather couch illumined by the brilliant light, Crewe lay; his massive relentless face with the great bowed nose, like the iron cast of what Marion had called a Nietzsche creature, motionless in death; his arms straight beside him with the great gloved hands open.

And all at once, at the sight, with a heavenly inspiration, I kept my promise.

“Look!” I cried.  “Oh, everybody, how the palms of his gloves are covered with rust!”

XIII.  The Pumpkin Coach

The story of the American Ambassadress was not the only one related on this night.

Sir Henry Marquis himself added another, in support of the contention of his guest . . . and from her own country.

The lawyer walked about the room.  The restraint which he had assumed was now quite abandoned.

“That’s all there is to it,” he said.  “I’m not trying this case for amusement.  You have the money to pay me and you must bring it up here now, tonight.”

The woman sat in a chair beyond the table.  She was young, but she looked worn and faded.  Misery and the long strain of the trial had worn her out.  Her hands moved nervously in the frayed coat-cuffs.

“But we haven’t any more money,” she said.  “The hundred dollars I paid you in the beginning is all we have.”

The man laughed without disturbing the muscles of his face.  “You can take your choice,” he said.  “Either bring the money up here now, to-night, or I withdraw from the case when court opens in the morning.”

“But where am I to get any more money?” the woman said.

The lawyer was a big man.  His hair, black and thin, was brushed close to his head as though wet with oil; his nose was thick and flattened at the base.  The office contained only a table, some chairs and a file for legal papers.  Night was beginning to descend.  Lights were appearing in the city.  The two persons had come in from the Criminal Court after the session for the day had ended.