I seated her by the side of me.
"Rachel," I said, "I can't explain the contradiction in what I am going to tell you.
I can only speak the truth as you have spoken it.
You saw me--with your own eyes, you saw me take the Diamond.
Before God who hears us, I declare that I now know I took it for the first time!
Do you doubt me still?"
She had neither heeded nor heard me.
"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.
If we look at what happened on the night of your birthday together, we may end in understanding each other yet."
Her head dropped back on my shoulder.
The tears gathered in her eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks.
"Oh!" she said, "have I never had that hope?
Have I not tried to see it, as you are trying now?"
"You have tried by yourself," I answered. "You have not tried with me to help you."
Those words seemed to awaken in her something of the hope which I felt myself when I uttered them.
She replied to my questions with more than docility--she exerted her intelligence; she willingly opened her whole mind to me.
"Let us begin," I said, "with what happened after we had wished each other good night.
Did you go to bed? or did you sit up?"
"I went to bed."
"Did you notice the time?
Was it late?"
"Not very.
About twelve o'clock, I think."
"Did you fall asleep?"
"No.
I couldn't sleep that night."
"You were restless?"
"I was thinking of you."
The answer almost unmanned me.
Something in the tone, even more than in the words, went straight to my heart.
It was only after pausing a little first that I was able to go on.
"Had you any light in your room?" I asked.
"None--until I got up again, and lit my candle."
"How long was that, after you had gone to bed?"
"About an hour after, I think. About one o'clock."