"Let go of my hand," she repeated
faintly. That was her only answer. Her head sank on my shoulder; and her
hand unconsciously closed on mine, at the moment when she asked me to
release it.
I refrained from pressing the question. But there my forbearance
stopped. My chance of ever holding up my head again among honest men
depended on my chance of inducing her to make her disclosure complete.
The one hope left for me was the hope that she might have overlooked
something in the chain of evidence some mere trifle, perhaps, which
might nevertheless, under careful investigation, be made the means of
vindicating my innocence in the end. I own I kept possession of her
hand. I own I spoke to her with all that I could summon back of the
sympathy and confidence of the bygone time.
"I want to ask you something," I said. "I want you to tell me everything
that happened, from the time when we wished each other good night, to
the time when you saw me take the Diamond."
She lifted her head from my shoulder, and made an effort to release her
hand. "Oh, why go back to it!" she said. "Why go back to it!"
"I will tell you why, Rachel. You are the victim, and I am the victim,
of some monstrous delusion which has worn the mask of truth.
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