When they passed she was her lovable self once more and very penitent and very downcast.

If all I feared were true, she was suffering acutely now.

But I gave no thought to this.

I could dream of but one thing--how to save her from the penalty of crime, a penalty I might be forced to suffer myself and would prefer to suffer rather than see it fall upon one so young and so angelically beautiful.
Turning to the officer next me, I put the question which had been burning in my mind for hours: "Tell me, how you came to know there was trouble here?
What brought you to this house?
There can be nothing wrong in telling me that." "Well, if you don't know--" he began.
"I do not," I broke in.
"I guess you'd better wait till the chief has had a word with you." I suppressed all tokens of my disappointment, and by a not unnatural reaction, perhaps, began to take in, and busy myself with, the very considerations I had hitherto shunned.

Where was Carmel, and how was she enduring these awful hours?
Had repentance come, and with it a desire to own her guilt?
Did she think of me and the effect this unlooked-for death would have upon my feelings?
That I should suffer arrest for her crime could not have entered her mind.