The Benson signal., 1916-01-01


of any trade, and the man held her by
his lying promises. He had almost
got his divorce, he said; he loved her;
for her sake he would reform, if only
she would trust him.
She had waited for him the evening
before; then there was a dreadful
blank in her mind, and she had re-
covered to find herself standing over
the body. And she had fed wildly for
| shelter.
Cray patted her hands "You stay
with nae until the trouble blows over"
he said. Il want a housekeeper. You
| will be quite safe here. / shall let it
be known that you answered an ad-
vertisement. When all is ready will
help you to a new life. You trust
me?"
She looked at him helplessly. II
am so ignorant" she wept. Il must
trust you. have nobody else.''
"You will not regret it," said Cray.
And he knew the girl was safe there.
| Nobody came to call at his little apart
/ ment.
The murder occupied two columns
of his morning paper, but the only clue
was that afforded by negro janitor,
| who had seen a woman ascending the
steps a few minutes before the trag-
edy. And he stated that her hair was
fair. The unknown woman's was
ebony dark. Cray felt safe.
1 ho nd
] no clue. And gradually the interest
waned. Nobody knew the murdered
man, who had very good reasons for
Disgusting his identity.
AS the days passed Helen Ware
came to trust Cray absolutely. She
cooked for him, mended his clothes,
resolutely refused to take the money
that he pressed upon her. Il can
never forget what l owe you," she
would say. But sometimes there would
be spells of weeping. 81 cid not mean
to kill him. the girl would moan. 'I
do not remember anything, except sit
ting at home waiting for him with
bitterness of heart; then I heard him
come in and went TO him-and was
standing over him with the dagger in
my hands,
''You don't recall the dagger?"
eyes. 1t was a curio of his; some
friend from savage country had
given it to him. I must have snatched
it from the wall and stabbed him."
AS the weeks turned into months,
Cray found himself torn between
two impulses. He wanted to let the
girl go to some scene where she
would be able to take up her life
anew. And yet-he knew that he
loved her. Her helplessness, her
charm, the bond between them had
created an intimacy that was infinite
ly sweet. He had been offered new
position in the West. One night he
took his courage in his hands and
asked her to be his wife and go with
him where all memory of the past
could be forgotten.
i He knew by her looks that she loved
him. But she would not.
1t is your pity for me, Ronald, not
love-" she said, sighing. Il love you,
but can never be your wife SO long
as this curse of blood lies on me-"
"You acted rightly" he cried hot
ly. mo jury would have convicted
you. Helen, dearest, forget it and
como with me-"
II cannot" she answered sadly. 'T
must leave you, and you must for
get"
But on the next day something hap
pened which drove all thoughts Of
parting from their heads. The wife Of
the murdered man was arrested
charged with the crime.
It was known that she had been in
the city that day. She had threat
ened him; the negro janitor identified
her as the woman he had seen near
Helen watched the unfolding of the
grim trial with dismay.
On the evening before the last day
Helen spoke to Ronald about what
lay uppermost in her mind.
Il cannot let that woman be con-
victed,'' she said. It must go down
to the court and offer my confes-
sion.'
| Ronald could not dissuade her. He
knew that it was the only possible
thing.
And all day they sat in the dreary
courtroom listening to the intolerably
long summing up. The jury had at
last retired. Ronald had persuaded
Helen not to speak unless the verdict
was guilty
It was hours before the jury re-
turned. A murmur spread through the
courtroom. The face of the foreman
was deadly white. He trembled and
looked away from the prisoners
straining eyes, There could be no
doubt what the verdict was.
Suddenly Helen sprang to her feet.
Ronald rose and kept his arm about
her. She faced the prisoner and
stretched out her hand.