“What was the late Carwell? What sort of fellow? That didn’t come out at the trial.”
“A priceless prig, Mark says. I suppose he was the last survivor of our ancient aristocracy. Poor Mark!”
“I wonder,” Reggie murmured.
“What?”
“Well”—he spread out his hands—“everything. You haven’t exactly cleared it up, have you?”
“Mark told Nan he didn’t do it,” she said quietly, and Reggie looked into her eyes. “Oh, can’t you see? That’s to trust to. That’s sure.” Reggie turned away. “You will help her?” the low voice came again.
And at last, “My dear, I daren’t say so,” Reggie said. “You mustn’t tell her to hope anything. I’ll go over all the case. But the man is condemned.”
“Why, but there’s a court of appeal.”
“Only for something new. And I don’t see it.”
“Mark didn’t kill him!” she cried.