“You believe—­that I killed Kedsty,” she said in a voice that was forced from her lips.  “And you have come to help me—­to pay me for what I tried to do for you?  That is it—­Jeems?”

“Pay you?” he cried.  “I couldn’t pay you in a million years!  From that day you first came to Cardigan’s place you gave me life.  You came when the last spark of hope in me had died.  I shall always believe that I would have died that night.  But you saved me.

“From the moment I saw you I loved you, and I believe it was that love that kept me alive.  And then you came to me again, down there, through this storm.  Pay you!  I can’t.  I never shall be able to.  Because you thought I had killed a man made no difference You came just the same.  And you came ready to kill, if necessary—­for me.  I’m not trying to tell myself why!  But you did.  You were ready to kill.  And I am ready to kill—­tonight—­for you!  I haven’t got time to think about Kedsty.  I’m thinking about you.  If you killed him, I’m just telling myself there was a mighty good reason for it.  But I don’t believe it was you who killed him.  You couldn’t do it—­with those hands!”

He reached out suddenly and seized them, slipping his grip to her wrists, so that her hands lay upward in his own, hands that were small, slim-fingered, soft-palmed, beautiful.

“They couldn’t!” he cried, almost fiercely.  “I swear to God they couldn’t!”

Her eyes and face flamed at his words.  “You believe that, Jeems?”

“Yes, just as you believe that I did not kill John Barkley.  But the world is against us.  It is against us both now.  And we’ve got to hunt that hidden valley of yours together.  Understand, Marette?  And I’m—­rather glad.”

He turned toward the door.  “Will you be ready in ten minutes?” he asked.

She nodded.  “Yes, in ten minutes.”

He ran out into the hall and down the stair, locking the front door.  Then he returned to his hiding-place under the roof.  He knew that a strange sort of madness was in his blood, for in the face of tonight’s tragedy only madness could inspire him with the ecstatic thrill that was in his veins.  Kedsty’s death seemed far removed from a more important thing—­the fact that from this hour Marette was his to fight for, that she belonged to him, that she must go with him.  He loved her.  In spite of whoever she was and whatever she had done, he loved her.  Very soon she would tell him what had happened in the room below, and the thing would be clear.

There was one little corner of his brain that fought him.  It kept telling him, like a parrot, that it was a tress of Marette’s hair about Kedsty’s throat, and that it was the hair that had choked him.  But Marette would explain that, too.  He was sure of it.  In the face of the facts below he was illogical and unreasonable.  He knew it.  But his love for this girl, who had come strangely and tragically into his life, was like an intoxicant.  And his faith was illimitable.  She did not kill Kedsty.  Another part of his brain kept repeating that over and over, even as he recalled that only a few hours before she had told him quite calmly that she would kill the Inspector of Police—­if a certain thing should happen.