“Oh!” cried Mary Louise and covered her face with her hands.

“You brute!” exclaimed Hathaway, highly incensed.

“But this is not all,” continued O’Gorman, unmoved; “your mother, Mary Louise, would have been condemned and imprisoned—­and deservedly so in the eyes of the law—­had the truth been known; and yet I assure you she was only guilty of folly and of ignorance of the terrible consequences that might have resulted from her act.  She was weak enough to be loyal to a promise wrung from her in extremity, and therein lay her only fault.  Your grandfather knew all this, and she was his daughter—­his only child.  When the accusation for your mother’s crime fell on him, he ran away and so tacitly admitted his guilt, thus drawing suspicion from her.  His reason for remaining hidden was that, had he been caught and brought to trial, he could not have lied or perjured himself under oath even to save his dearly loved daughter from punishment.  Now you understand why he could not submit to arrest; why, assisted by a small but powerful band of faithful friends, he has been able to evade capture during all these years.  I admire him for that; but he has sacrificed himself long enough.  Your mother’s recent death renders her prosecution impossible.  It is time the truth prevailed.  In simple justice I will not allow this old man to embitter further his life, just to protect his grandchild from a knowledge of her mother’s sin.”

Again a deathly silence pervaded the room.

“You—­you are speaking at random,” said Hathaway, in a voice choked with emotion.  “You have no proof of these dreadful statements.”

“But I have!” said Irene bravely, believing it her duty to support O’Gorman.

“And so have I,” asserted the quiet voice of Sarah Judd, who had entered the room unperceived.

Hathaway regarded both the girls in surprise, but said nothing.

“I think,” said Officer O’Gorman, “it will be best for us to read to Mr. Hathaway that letter.”

“The letter which I found in the book?” asked Irene eagerly.

“Yes.  But do not disturb yourself,” as she started to wheel her chair close to the wall.  “Josie will get it.”

To Irene’s astonishment Sarah Judd walked straight to the repeating rifle, opened the sliding plate in its stock and took out the closely folded letter.  Perhaps Nan Shelley and Agatha Lord were no less surprised than Irene; also they were deeply chagrined.  But O’Gorman’s slip in calling Sarah Judd “Josie” had conveyed to his associates information that somewhat modified their astonishment at the girl’s cleverness, for everyone who knew O’Gorman had often heard of his daughter Josie, of whom he was accustomed to speak with infinite pride.  He always said he was training her to follow his own profession and that when the education was complete Josie O’Gorman would make a name for herself in the detective service.  So Nan and Agatha exchanged meaning glances and regarded the freckled-faced girl with new interest.