The young man stretched out his hand for the letters that lay on the table between them, but the Governor reached for them swiftly. "Here,' he said, "you can take an answer to the warden,” and he dictated the following note:

"DEAR WARDEN:

"Your communication in reference to the letter addressed to me by an inmate of your prison came duly to hand. I entirely agree with you as to the utterly untrustworthy source of this supposed information. I feel it is best to ignore the letter.

"I never act except on evidence, such information as would be accepted in court, and this communication gives none whatever, save the word of a convict, and we know what that amounts to. With thanks for your courtesy in this matter, I am, "Yours, etc."

The Governor tossed the warden's letter to his secretary and almost at the same moment tore up the prisoner's communication, consigning it to the near-by waste-paper basket. McAllister bit his lip and boldly declared he would like to have filed it with the other papers in the case and added: "If ever the truth comes out, I fear Jack Morris's words about judicial murder will haunt our memories rather painfully."

"Nonsense, boy!" exclaimed the Governor, with impatience. "Judicial murder, there is no such thing. The State and the law cannot murder. It may make a mistake through lack of evidence, but it can murder no man.'

"Well, it can kill him, and unjustifiable killing is called murder, when it is done by an individual or individuals, and it does not seem to me there is much difference, even if the life is taken by that representative of many individuals, the State, or the Governor they have invested with power for the time being."

The Governor rose to show that the interview was over and said somewhat laughingly: "My dear McAllister, I guess that handsome Mrs. Morris has so dazzled you that you have lost all practical perspective in this case. You have no ghost of evidence, no shadow of proof. You are like all these other morbidly sentimental people, who would have the Governor act on their beliefs, just because they are sorry to see a handsome scoundrel suffer for his deviltry. You all say he is innocent. I say, 'Prove it.' You cannot do so, and there's an end to it."

Without a word, even a good-night, the young man took his hat and strode to the door. Just as he was leaving the room, the Governor called:

"Of course, McAllister, I expect this interview to be regarded in confidence." With almost a sneer, the young man threw back, over his shoulders, "I have never made it a practice to reveal State secrets. Your affairs go no farther where I am concerned."

As he banged the street door and passed out into the starlit night he muttered between his teeth, “If that chap is innocent, I would rather be Jack Morris than the Governor of this State. Then at a recollection he laughed and mused to himself:

"How would dear, emphatic, far-seeing Mrs. McDonald like that sweeping assertion that you could trust no convict's word? She would probably express the sincere wish that the Governor might himself be condemned to the horror of the death-cells that his eyes might be opened and his heart enlarged; but, after all, has he got such a thing in the accepted sense, or is it merely an organ by which blood is pumped into his physical system?"

With a shrug of the shoulders, he shelved the subject and passed on his way.

CHAPTER XVII

Με

AT THE FLUTTER OF A HANDKERCHIEF

URIEL sat at her window as the dawn crept

over the leaden waters of the river and made the distant hills take form out of the blackness that shrouded them. When she had gone to her room the night before, she had determined to seek sleep, if by any chance it would in mercy come, to bring to her an hour or two of forgetfulness. She knew that all the nerve and strength she could command would be needed for the coming ordeal. For hours she lay in the dark, waiting for the balm that did not come to her tired, burning eyes. Her pillow grew hot beneath her restless head, the bedclothing seemed to weigh unbearably, and the darkness enclosed her with an oppression that at last could be endured no longer. Springing up, she threw around her a soft white gown and thrust her feet into fur-trimmed slippers. She stretched out her hand to turn on the light, but drew back with a shudder. She could not bear the glare

that would flood the room.

Her aching eyes and throbbing heart recoiled at the thought of light that could not cheer or comfort and would only bring a keener realisation of the horror that filled her thoughts.

Groping her way across the room, she raised the shade and threw back the shutters. The cool breath of the night came to her as a soothing potion; the air had the fragrance of damp woods and night-blooming flowers. First it was utter blackness, then the trees took form as inky etchings against the gloom. A breeze whispered in the leaves, every now and then some bird stirred, and a faint call or twitter sounded as it settled again in the leafy shadows. The lonely watcher gazed long and steadily into the distance until she could just discern the river, that great tide that swept down from the distant mountains and away to the waiting sea, but which she thought of only as passing the great prison walls, where a brave man also watched and waited for the morning, and for death. Was he awake? What were his thoughts? Had fear or horror crept in to torture him? Or was the white angel of a new and vital faith standing guard, while his soul communed with the God he was so soon to meet, face to face, in the new dawn of the perfect day?