The great advocate was pale, but very sincere and earnest. Cyril noticed his manner was completely changed. It was clear some overmastering idea possessed his soul.
“Mr. Waring,” he said, looking him full in the face, “I see you’re unrepresented. This is a case in which I take a very deep interest. My conduct’s unprofessional, I know—point-blank against all our recognised etiquette—but perhaps you’ll excuse it. Will you allow me to undertake your defence in this matter?”
Cyril turned round to him with truly heartfelt thanks. It was a great relief to him, alone and in doubt, and much wondering about Guy, to hear a friendly word from whatever quarter.
And Cyril knew he was safe in Gilbert Gildersleeve’s hands: the greatest criminal lawyer of the day in England might surely be trusted to set right such a mere little error of mistaken identity. Though for Guy—whenever Guy gave himself up to the police—Cyril felt the position was far more dangerous. He couldn’t believe, indeed, that Guy was guilty; yet the circumstances, he could no longer conceal from himself, looked terribly black against him.
“You’re too good,” he cried, taking the lawyer’s hand in his with very fervent gratitude. “How can I thank you enough? I’m deeply obliged to you.”
“Not at all,” Gilbert Gildersleeve answered, with very blanched lips. He was ashamed of his duplicity. “You’ve nothing to thank me for. This case is a simple one, and I’d like to see you out of it. I’ve met your brother; and the moment I saw you I knew you weren’t he, though you’re very like him. I should know you two apart wherever I saw you.”
“That’s curious,” Cyril cried, “for very few people know us from one another, except the most intimate friends.”
The Q.C. looked at him with a very penetrating glance. “I had occasion to see your brother not long since,” he answered slowly, “and his features and expression fastened themselves indelibly on my mind’s eye. I should know you from him at a glance. This case, as you say, is one of mistaken identity. That’s just why I’m so anxious to help you well through it.”
And indeed, Gilbert Gildersleeve, profoundly agitated as he was, saw in the accident a marvellous chance for himself to secure a diversion of police attention from the real murderer. The fact was, he had passed twenty-four hours of supreme misery. As soon as he learned from common report that “the murderer was caught, and was being brought to Tavistock,” he took it for granted at first that Guy hadn’t gone to Africa at all, but had left by rail for the East, and been arrested elsewhere. That belief filled him full of excruciating terrors. For Gilbert Gildersleeve, accidental manslaughterer as he was, was not by any means a depraved or wholly heartless person. Big, blustering, and gruff, he was yet in essence an honest, kind-hearted, unemotional Englishman. His one desire now was to save his wife and daughter from further misery; and if he could only save them, he was ready to sacrifice for the moment, to a certain extent, Guy Waring’s reputation. But if Guy Waring himself had stood before him in the dock, he must have stepped forward to confess. The strain would have been too great for him. He couldn’t have allowed an innocent man to be hanged in his place. Come what might, in that case he must let his wife and daughter go, and save the innocent by acknowledging himself guilty. So, when he looked at the prisoner, it gave him a shock of joy to see that fortune had once more befriended him. Thank Heaven, thank Heaven, it wasn’t the man they wanted at all. This was the other brother of the two—Cyril, the painter, not Guy, the journalist.
In a moment the acute and experienced criminal hand recognised that this chance told unconsciously in his own favour. Like every other suspected person, he wanted time, and time would be taken up in proving an alibi for Cyril, as well as showing by concurrent proof that he was not his brother. Meanwhile, suspicion would fix itself still more firmly upon Guy, whose flight would give colour to the charges brought against him by the authorities.