"Why?" Houston turned to him in hope,—in the glimmering chance that perhaps there was something in the train of circumstances that would have prevented the actuality of guilt. But the answer, while it cheered him, was rather disconcerting.
"You look like my Pierre. Pierre, he could do no wrong. You look like heem."
It was sufficient for the old French-Canadian. But Houston knew it could carry but little weight with the girl by the window. He went on:
"Only one shred of evidence was presented in my behalf. It was by a woman who had worked for about six months for my father,—Miss Jierdon. She testified to having passed in a taxicab just at the end of our quarrel, and that, while it was true that there was evidence of a struggle, Langdon had the mallet. She was my only witness, besides the experts. But it may help here, Miss Robinette."
It was the first time he had addressed her directly and she turned, half in surprise.
"How," she asked the question as though with an effort, "how were you cleared?"
"Through expert medical testimony that the blow which killed Langdon could not have been struck with that mallet. The whole trial hinged on the experts. The jury didn't believe much of either side. They couldn't decide absolutely that I had killed Langdon. And so they acquitted me. I'm trying to tell you the truth, without any veneer to my advantage."
"Bon! Good! Eet is best."
"Miss Jierdon is the same one who is out here?"
"Yes."