“I have just explained,” she reminded him, “that I had sympathy for the criminal.”

“We all have sympathy for James Zabel, but—­”

“I do not believe one word of this story,” interposed Sweetwater, in reckless disregard of proprieties.  “A hungry, feeble old man, like Zabel, on the verge of death, could not have found his way into these woods.  You carried the money there yourself, miss; you are the—­”

“Hush!” interposed the coroner, authoritatively; “do not let us go too fast—­yet.  Miss Page has an air of speaking the truth, strange and unaccountable as it may seem.  Zabel was an admirable man once, and if he was led into theft and murder, it was not until his faculties had been weakened by his own suffering and that of his much-loved brother.”

“Thank you,” was her simple reply; and for the first time every man there thrilled at her tone.  Seeing it, all the dangerous fascination of her look and manner returned upon her with double force.  “I have been unwise,” said she, “and let my sympathy run away with my judgment.  Women have impulses of this kind sometimes, and men blame them for it, till they themselves come to the point of feeling the need of just such blind devotion.  I am sure I regret my short-sightedness now, for I have lost esteem by it, while he—­” With a wave of the hand she dismissed the subject, and Dr. Talbot, watching her, felt a shade of his distrust leave him, and in its place a species of admiration for the lithe, graceful, bewitching personality before them, with her childish impulses and womanly wit which half mystified and half imposed upon them.

Mr. Sutherland, on the contrary, was neither charmed from his antagonism nor convinced of her honesty.  There was something in this matter that could not be explained away by her argument, and his suspicion of that something he felt perfectly sure was shared by his son, toward whose cold, set face he had frequently cast the most uneasy glances.  He was not ready, however, to probe into the subject more deeply, nor could he, for the sake of Frederick, urge on to any further confession a young woman whom his unhappy son professed to love, and in whose discretion he had so little confidence.  As for Sweetwater, he had now fully recovered his self-possession, and bore himself with great discretion when Dr. Talbot finally said: 

“Well, gentlemen, we have got more than we expected when we came here this morning.  There remains, however, a point regarding which we have received no explanation.  Miss Page, how came that orchid, which I am told you wore in your hair at the dance, to be found lying near the hem of Batsy’s skirts?  You distinctly told us that you did not go up-stairs when you were in Mrs. Webb’s house.”

“Ah, that’s so!” acquiesced the Boston detective dryly.  “How came that flower on the scene of the murder?”

She smiled and seemed equal to the emergency.

“That is a mystery for us all to solve,” she said quietly, frankly meeting the eyes of her questioner.