Free Another Woman's House by Mignon G. Eberhart

“That one.” His voice was unsteady, too, like his hands. She took it, only half, conscious of her action. The butler moved on to the Governor. Richard said slowly, “Let me get the straight of this, sir. Is there to be a new trial?”
    â€œThank you.” The Governor looked up directly at Richard. “There will never be another trial for your wife. But naturally her pardon automatically re-opens the case. There will be a renewed investigation; there must be. As I say, somebody killed Jack Manders. Owing to the peculiar and very regrettable circumstances, at my request, the district attorney will take no steps until tomorrow. When he discovers the murderer, naturally there will be another trial for the real murderer, but not for Mrs. Thorne.”
    â€œAlice …”
    â€œYour wife, Thorne, is unconditionally free. She could never under any possible circumstances be forced to undergo another trial for the murder of Manders. That is the law; she cannot be placed in double jeopardy. A pardon in this instance acts the same as an acquittal. But if I had not been convinced of the illegality and injustice of her conviction I should not have pardoned her. And, to tell you the truth, Thorne, while Webb Manders’ testimony was the keystone of my case as prosecutor and it seemed to me then right that she should be convicted, at the same time it did, shall I say, surprise me. I had no doubts of your wife’s guilt, but at the same time, instinctively I felt a certain astonishment. I could not reconcile what appeared to be an established fact with my own estimate of your wife’s character. It was wrong psychologically, yet God knows a lawyer is only too well accustomed to the infinite variations of the human mind and motives. Her guilt seemed to be a proven fact. I accepted it as such.” He drank and said, “You’d better let me give you the details. Miss Lane, too. It was, as a matter of fact, her brother who started the thing.”
    â€œTim!” cried Richard.
    â€œYes. Timothy Lane. If you don’t mind …” The Governor glanced around and went to sit in the ruby-red arm chair. He looked extraordinarily big and bulky and powerful sitting there, leaning forward a little, holding his glass in large square fingers. He sighed. “I’ve got to drive back to Albany tonight. I’ll make it brief. Tim Lane came to me yesterday with a—a remarkable story.”
    â€œTim!” cried Richard incredulously again.
    Myra’s hands were holding hard to the arms of her chair. “But Tim knew nothing about the murder!” she cried. “That is, he knew so little. He saw Webb drive past him toward the house. He heard the shots. But when he reached this room it was all over. He could only tell what he saw then.”
    â€œBut that,” said the Governor slowly, “was very important. Wait, Miss Lane. Let’s go back to the night of the murder. You were not here and do not know …”
    â€œI saw all the papers. I talked to Tim when he reached England. He knew nothing more than he told …”
    The Governor put up a hand in a protesting way. “If you please, my dear. We’ll talk about your brother’s motives in a moment. Indeed—” again the rather grim and obstinate look settled about his mouth—“indeed we must talk of them. But just now I want you to go back to the story Tim told at the time of the murder.”
    â€œTim corroborated Webb’s testimony,” said Richard. “What has he done now?”
    â€œI’ll tell you. Tim came to me yesterday, in the afternoon, late. I remembered his name, of course. He wouldn’t say why he wanted to see me—which was just as well. I have a good staff but there are always leaks—at any rate I saw him. He looked rather ill and nervous, sat there twisting his hat and told me a remarkable story. You’ll remember his story of the night of