“I cannot prove my innocence,” he said.

“Do you mean that you will not?”

“I will go with you and stand my trial.  I will accept whatever punishment the law decrees.”

O’Gorman nodded his head.

“I know exactly how you feel about it, Mr. Hathaway,” he said, “and I sympathize with you most earnestly.  Will you allow me to sit down awhile?  Thank you.”

He took a chair facing that of the hunted man.  Agatha, seeing this, seated herself on the door-step.  Nan maintained her position, leaning through the open window.

“This,” said O’Gorman, “is a strange ease.  It has always been a strange case, sir, from the very beginning.  Important government secrets of the United States were stolen and turned over to the agent of a foreign government which is none too friendly to our own.  It was considered, in its day, one of the most traitorous crimes in our history.  And you, sir, a citizen of high standing and repute, were detected in the act of transferring many of these important papers to a spy, thus periling the safety of the nation.  You were caught red-handed, so to speak, but made your escape and in a manner remarkable and even wonderful for its adroitness have for years evaded every effort on the part of our Secret Service Department to effect your capture.  And yet, despite the absolute truth of this statement, you are innocent.”

None cared to reply for a time.  Some who had listened to O’Gorman were too startled to speak; others refrained.  Mary Louise stared at the detective with almost Peter Conant’s expression—­her eyes big and round.  Irene thrilled with joyous anticipation, for in the presence of this sorrowing, hunted, white-haired old man, whose years had been devoted to patient self-sacrifice, the humiliation the coming disclosure would, thrust upon Mary Louise seemed now insignificant.  Until this moment Irene had been determined to suppress the knowledge gained through the old letter in order to protect the feelings of her friend, but now a crying need for the truth to prevail was borne in upon her.  She had thought that she alone knew this truth.  To her astonishment, as well as satisfaction, the chair-girl now discovered that O’Gorman was equally well informed.

CHAPTER XXV

SIMPLE JUSTICE

All eyes were turned upon Mr. Hathaway, who had laid a hand upon the head of his grandchild and was softly stroking her hair.  At last he said brokenly, repeating his former assertion: 

“I cannot prove my innocence.”

“But I can,” declared O’Gorman positively, “and I’m going to do it.”

“No—­no!” said Hathaway, startled at his tone.