“But I have not given up all hope.  My cause is too promising.  True, I may not succeed in marrying Reuther into the Ostrander family, even if it should be my good lot to clear her father’s name; but my efforts would have one good result, as precious—­ perhaps more precious than the one I name.  She would no longer have to regard that father as guilty of a criminal act.  If such relief can be hers she should have it.  But how am I to proceed?  I know as well as any one how impossible the task must prove, unless I can light upon fresh evidence.  And where am I to get that?  Only from some new witness.”

Miss Weeks’ polite smile took on an expression of indulgence.  This roused Deborah’s pride, and, hesitating no longer, she anxiously remarked: 

“I have sometimes thought that Oliver Ostrander might be that witness.  He certainly was in the ravine the night Algernon Etheridge was struck down.”

Had she been an experienced actress of years she could not have thrown into this question a greater lack of all innuendo.  Miss Weeks, already under her fascination, heard the tone but never thought to notice the quick rise and fall of her visitor’s uneasy bosom, and so unwarned, responded with all due frankness: 

“I know he was.  But how will that help you?  He had no testimony to give in relation to this crime, or he would have given it.”

“That is true.”  The admission fell mechanically from Deborah’s lips; she was not conscious, even, of making it.  She was struggling with the shock of the simple statement, confirming her own fears that Oliver had actually been in the ravine at the hour of Etheridge’s murder.  “Not even a boy would hide knowledge of that kind,” she stumblingly continued.  Then, as her emotion choked her into silence, she sat with piteous eyes searching Miss Weeks’ face, till she had recovered her voice, when she added this vital question: 

“How did you know that Oliver was in the ravine that night?  I only guessed it.”

“Well, it was in this way.  I do not often keep my eye on my neighbours (oh, no, Miss Weeks!), but that night I chanced to be looking over the way just at the minute Mr. Etheridge came out, and something I saw in his manner and in that of the judge who had followed him to the door, and in that of Oliver who, cap on head, was leaning towards them from a window over the porch, made me think that a controversy was going on between the two old people of which Oliver was the subject.  This naturally interested me, and I watched them long enough to see Oliver suddenly raise his fist and shake it at old Etheridge; then, in great rage, slam down the window and disappear inside.  The next minute, and before the two below had done talking; I caught another glimpse of him as he dashed around the corner of the house on his way to the ravine.”

“And Mr. Etheridge?”

“Oh, he left soon after.  I watched him as he went by, his long cloak flapping in the wind.  Little did I think he would never pass my window again.”