"Accused of murder!" Agnes echoed, staring before her in much excitement. "Jean Baptiste accused of murder!" She read the account again. She arose and stood on the floor. "He is innocent, he is innocent!" she cried to herself. "Jean Baptiste would not commit murder, no, no, no! No, not even if he was justified in doing so." Suddenly she seized her clothes, and in the next instant was getting hurriedly into them.

She completed her toilet quickly, opened the door and slipped down the stairs. The maid was at work in the hall, and she approached her, and said:

"Will you kindly advise the lady of the house that I have gone downtown on some very urgent business. That I shall return later in the day?"

She stepped outside, crossed to State Street, inquired of an officer the way to the county jail, and a few minutes later boarded a car for the north side.

She had no plans as to what she would or could do, but she was going to him. All that he had been to her in the past had arisen the instant she saw that he was in trouble. Especially did she recall his having saved them from foreclosure and disgrace years before. She was determined. She was going to him, he was innocent, she was positive, and she would do all in her power to save him.

It was rather awkward, going to a place she had never dreamed of going to, the county jail, but she shook this resolutely from her mind, and a few minutes following her arrival, there she stood before the bailiff.

"I am a friend of a man who was arrested in connection with a murder last night," she explained to the officer. "And—ah, would it be possible for me to see and consult with him?"

"You refer to that case on Vernon Avenue, madam?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you would like to see this Jean Baptiste?"

"That is the one."

They regarded her closely, and was finally asked to follow the bailiff.

They stopped presently before a cell, and when the light had been turned on, she saw Baptiste sitting on a cot. He looked up, and upon recognizing her, came forward.

"Why, Agnes—Miss Stewart, you!" he cried in great surprise. He regarded her as if afraid to try to understand her presence there.

"Yes, Jean," she answered quickly. "It is I." She hesitated in her excitement, and as she did so, he caught that same mystery in her eyes. They were blue, and again he could swear that they were brown. Despite his precarious position and predicament, he could not help regarding her, and marking the changes that had come in the years since he had seen her. She seemed to have grown a trifle stouter, while her hair appeared there in the light more beautiful. Her face was stronger, while her lips were as red as ever. Withal, she had grown more serious looking. She reminded him as she stood there then, of a serious young literary woman, and he was made hopeful by her visit.