witness of what took place, and that the horror of it temporarily unhinged her brain."
"Is she—mad?"
"No; but she suffers from entire loss of memory. Her life might have commenced with her entrance through my window; she can remember nothing of what occurred before, not even her own name. I believe that if she could be brought to recall what she actually saw take place, her innocence would be at once made plain."
"What is the name of the man who was—murdered?" I told her. "Lawrence? Edwin Lawrence? I don't remember ever having heard the name."
"She said nothing to you last night about having an appointment with him? Or with any one?"
She hesitated.
"Are you—Bessie's friend?"
"I am. At least, I hope I may call myself her friend, although I never spoke to her before last night. I do not think that there is anything which I would not do to save her from misconstruction."
She eyed me—quizzically.
"I think I'll trust you, Mr. Ferguson, though I never trusted a man yet without regretting it. I hope you won't feel hurt, but there is something about you which reminds me of a St. Bernard.
