Her face was set.  “You will remember, also, Professor Kennedy,” she said, with a great effort controlling her voice, “that I said that Mr. Lockwood was not there to defend himself and I would not have him attacked by innuendo.  I meant it to the Senora—­I mean it to you!”

She had also meant it to defy him; but as she proceeded her voice broke, and before she knew it her nature had triumphed, and she was alternately sobbing and pleading.

For a minute or two Kennedy let her give vent to her emotions.

“It cannot be.  It cannot be,” she sobbed over and over.  “He could not have been there.  He could not have done it.”

It was a terrible thing to have to disillusion her, but it was something now that had to be done.  Kennedy had not sought to do so.  He had postponed it in the hope of finding some other way.  But now the thing was forced upon him.

“Who told you?” he asked finally.

“I was trying to read, to keep my mind occupied, as you asked me, when Juanita told me that there was some one in the living room who wanted to see me—­a man.  I thought it was either you or Mr. Jameson.  But it was—­Professor Norton—­”

Kennedy and I exchanged glances.  That was the action in revenge to Lockwood and Whitney which he had contemplated over the telephone.  It was so cruel and harsh that I could have hated him for it, the more so as I recollected that it was he himself who had cautioned us against doing the very thing which now he had done in the heat of passion.

“Oh,” she wailed, “he was very kind and considerate about it.  He said he felt that it was his duty to tell me, that he would be anything, like an older brother, to me; that he could not see me blinded any longer to what was going on, and everybody knew, but had not love enough for me to tell.  It was such a shock.  I could not even speak.  I simply ran from the room without another word to him, and Juanita found me lying on the bed.  Then—­I decided—­I would come to you.”

She paused, and her great, deep eyes looked up pathetically.  “And you,” she added bitterly, “you are going to tell me that he was right, that it is true.  You can’t prove it.  Show me what it is that you have.  I defy you!”

Somehow, as she rested and relieved her feelings, a new strength seemed to come to her.  It was what Kennedy had been waiting for, the reaction that would leave her able for him to go on and plan for the future.

He reached into a drawer of a cabinet and pulled out the various shoe-prints which he had already shown Norton, and which he had studied and restudied so carefully.

“That is the print of the shoe in the dust of the Egyptian sarcophagus of the Museum,” he said quietly.  “Some one got in during the daytime and hid there until the place was locked.  That is the print of Alfonso de Moche’s shoe, that of Mr. Whitney’s, and that of Mr. Lockwood’s.”

He said it quickly, as though trying to gloss it over.  But she would not have it that way.  She felt stronger, and she was going to see just what there was there.  She took the prints and studied them, though her hand trembled.  Hers was a remarkable mind.  It took only seconds to see what others would have seen only in minutes.  But it was not the reasoning faculty that was aroused by what she saw.  It sank deep into her heart.