‘What is it, old man? I can see something’s gone wrong.’
‘Charlie,’ was the reply, spoken in a tone hardly above a whisper, ‘are you prosecuting Eleanor Owen?’
Prescott nodded.
‘And have you read your brief?’
‘I’ve just come from it.’
‘Then you can understand how I feel. I am defending her—and I love her!’
He threw all the energy of his passionate nature into the last sentence, and then sank down upon the window seat and hid his face with his hands.
For several minutes neither spoke. Prescott hardly knew what course to take. To offer to resign his brief might be to let it pass into the hands of one who would share Mr. Pollard’s prejudice against the accused. On the other hand, to retain it, unless he were prepared to bring the case fully home to the prisoner, would be alike a breach of professional honour and an act of dishonesty. He resolved at last to leave the choice to his friend.
‘George,’ he said.