“Wait a moment!” exclaimed Sir James, holding up his hand.  “Those adjectives, believe me, are unjust.”

“I know that you think so,” was the animated reply.  “But I remember the case; I have my own opinion.”

“They are unjust,” repeated Sir James, with emphasis.  “Then it is really the horror of the thing itself—­not so much its possible effect on social position and opinion, which decides you?”

“I ask myself—­I must ask myself,” said his companion, with equal emphasis, forcing the words:  “can I help Oliver to marry the daughter—­of a convicted murderess—­and adulteress?”

“No!” said Sir James, holding up his hand again—­“No!"

Lady Lucy fell back in her chair.  Her unwonted color had disappeared, and the old hand lying in her lap—­a hand thin to emaciation—­shook a little.

“Is not this too painful for us both, Sir James?—­can we continue it?  I have my duty to think of; and yet—­I cannot, naturally, speak to you with entire frankness.  Nor can I possibly regard your view as an impartial one.  Forgive me.  I should not have dreamed of referring to the matter in any other circumstances.”

“Certainly, I am not impartial,” said Sir James, looking up.  “You know that, of course, well enough.”

He spoke in a strong full voice.  Lady Lucy encountered a singular vivacity in the gray eyes, as though the whole power of the man’s personality backed the words.

“Believe me,” she said, with dignity, and not without kindness, “it is not I who would revive such memories.”

Sir James nodded quietly.

“I am not impartial; but I am well informed.  It was my view which affected the judge, and ultimately the Home Office.  And since the trial—­in quite recent years—­I have received a strange confirmation of it which has never been made public.  Did Oliver report this to you?”

“He told me certain facts,” said Lady Lucy, unwillingly; “but I did not see that they made much difference.”

“Perhaps he did not give them the right emphasis,” said Sir James, calmly.  “Will you allow me to tell you the whole story?—­as it appears to me.”

Lady Lucy looked distressed.

“Is it worth while,” she said, earnestly, “to give yourself so much pain?  I cannot imagine that it could alter the view I take of my duty.”

Sir James flushed, and sternly straightened himself.  It was a well-known gesture, and ominous to many a prisoner in the dock.

“Worth while!” he said.  “Worth while!—­when your son’s future may depend on the judgment you form.”

The sharpness of his tone called the red also to Lady Lucy’s cheek.

“Can anything that may be said now alter the irrevocable?” she asked, in protest.

“It cannot bring the dead to life; but if you are really more influenced in this matter by the heinousness of the crime itself, by the moral infection, so to speak—­that may spring from any kinship with Juliet Sparling or inheritance from her—­than by any dread of social disgrace or disadvantage—­if that be true!—­then for Oliver’s sake—­for that poor child’s sake—­you ought to listen to me!  There, I can meet you—­there, I have much to say.”