“These two fingers,” he repeated, “and a flick of the wrist—very little more than would be necessary for a thirty yard putt right across the green.”
Francis had recovered himself, had found his bearings to a certain extent.
“I am sorry that you have told me this, Mr. Hilditch,” he said, a little stiffly.
“Why?” was the puzzled reply. “I thought you would be interested.”
“I am interested to this extent,” Francis declared, “I shall accept no more cases such as yours unless I am convinced of my client's innocence. I look upon your confession to me as being in the worst possible taste, and I regret very much my efforts on your behalf.”
The woman was listening intently. Hilditch's expression was one of cynical wonder. Francis rose to his feet and moved across to his hostess.
“Mrs. Hilditch,” he said, “will you allow me to make my apologies? Your husband and I have arrived at an understanding—or perhaps I should say a misunderstanding—which renders the acceptance of any further hospitality on my part impossible.”
She held out the tips of her fingers.
“I had no idea,” she observed, with gentle sarcasm, “that you barristers were such purists morally. I thought you were rather proud of being the last hope of the criminal classes.”
“Madam,” Francis replied, “I am not proud of having saved the life of a self-confessed murderer, even though that man may be your husband.”