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.
Pages:
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160