“Why?” I asked in a voice that I tried to keep from being hard.

“He says,” she continued, with a note of weariness in her voice, “that he is not a rich man, and cannot give me the comforts and luxuries to which I have been accustomed, and that therefore it is only right for him to release me.”

“Of course you didn’t accept his generous sacrifice,” I said; and my own hopes ran riot as I listened for her answer.

“I told him I was willing to share poverty with him,” she said, with a quiet dignity, as if telling an impersonal tale, “but he insisted that the engagement should be broken.”

“And is it?” I asked eagerly, almost breathlessly.

She gave me that look which always rebuked me—­always put me back in my place—­but which, it seemed to me, was a little less severe than ever before.  “It’s left undecided for a day or two,” she said.  Then she added hurriedly

“I must see if he needs me.  Do you suppose this story of Mrs. Cunningham’s will in any way—­well, affect him?”

“It may,” I replied truthfully.  “At any rate, he must be made to tell where he was and what he was doing Tuesday night.  You have no idea, have you?”

Florence hesitated a moment, looked at me in a way I could not fathom, and then, but only after a little choking sound in her throat, she said

“No, I have no idea.”

It was impossible to believe her.  No one would show such emotion, such difficulty of speech, if telling a simple truth.  Yet when I looked in her troubled eyes, and read there anxiety, uncertainty, and misery, I only loved her more than ever.  Truly it was time for me to give up this case.  Whatever turn it took, I was no fit person to handle clues or evidence which filled me with deadly fear lest they turn against the one I loved.

And yet that one, already suspected by many, had been proved to have both motive and opportunity.

And I, I who loved her, knew that, in one instance, at least, she had been untruthful.

Yes, it was high time for me to give this case into other hands.

I looked at her again, steadily but with a meaning in my glance that I hoped she would understand.  I wanted her to know, that though of course justice was my end and aim, yet I was sure the truth could not implicate her, and if it did implicate Mr. Hall, the sooner we discovered it the better.

I think she appreciated my meaning, for the troubled look in her own eyes disappeared, and she seemed suddenly almost willing to give me her full confidence.

I resolved to make the most of my opportunity.

“Of course you know,” I said gently, “that I want to believe all you say to me.  But, Miss Lloyd, your naturally truthful nature so rebels at your unveracity, that it is only too plain to be seen when you are not telling the truth.  Now, I do not urge you, but I ask you to tell me, confidentially if you choose, what your surmise is as to Mr. Hall’s strange reticence.”