"
"What woman?" Wilmore demanded, leaning forward in his chair and
gazing at his friend with increasing uneasiness.
"A woman who met me outside the Court and told me the story of
Oliver Hilditch's life."
"A stranger?"
"A complete stranger to me. It transpired that she was his
wife."
Wilmore lit a cigarette.
"Believe her?"
"There are times when one doesn't believe or disbelieve," Francis
answered. "One knows."
Wilmore nodded.
"All the same, you're crazy," he declared. "Even if you did save
the fellow from the gallows, you were only doing your job, doing
your duty to the best of poor ability. You had no reason to
believe him guilty."
"That's just as it happened," Francis pointed out. "I really
didn't care at the time whether he was or not. I had to proceed
on the assumption that he was not, of course, but on the other
hand I should have fought just as hard for him if I had known him
to be guilty."
"And you wouldn't now--to-morrow, say?"
"Never again."
"Because of that woman's story?"
"Because of the woman."
There was a short silence. Then Wilmore asked a very obvious
question.
"What sort of a person was she?"
Francis Ledsam was several moments before he replied. The
question was one which he had been expecting, one which he had
already asked himself many times, yet he was unprepared with any
definite reply.
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