He stopped in his pacing and tried to get a grip on himself, tried to speak quietly with his voice gone to a husky murmur:
"Tomorrow do you say? Tomorrow they're going to do this damnable thing?"
"Tomorrow at ten in Mr. Whitney's office," I answered, weak and trembling.
He stood for a moment looking on the ground, his brows drawn low over his eyes, the bones of his jaw showing set under the flesh. A deadly fear seized me—a fear that followed on a flash of understanding. I got up—I guess as white as he was—and went over to him.
"Jack," I said. "You can't do anything. Everything's against her. There's not a point that doesn't show she's guilty."
He gave me a look from under his eyebrows like the thrust of a sword.
"Don't say that to me again, Molly," he almost whispered, "or I'll forget the debt I owe you and the affection I've felt for you since the day we swore to be friends."
"What can you do?" I cried, fairly distracted. "They've got the evidence. It's there——"
I tried to put my hand on his arm but he shook it off and walked toward the door. I followed him and during those few short steps from the dining-room to the hall, it came to me as clear as if he'd said it that he was going to Carol Whitehall to help her run away.
"What are you going to do?" I said, standing in the doorway as he pulled his hat off the peg and turned toward the hall door.