Despite it all, as it overwhelmed him thus abruptly, he felt himself struggling against it. He could not even now accept a belief in her complicity in such a deed while he thought of the beauty of her nature. That potent something she had stirred in his heart was a fierce, fighting champion to defend her.
He had not dared confess to himself he was certainly, fatefully falling in love with this girl he scarcely knew, but his heart refused to hear her accused and his mind was engaged in her defence.
Above all else, he felt the need for calmness. Perhaps the sky would clear itself, and the sun again gild her beauty.
"Mrs. Fairfax," he repeated to his garrulous informant. "She brought the cigars, you say, the day of Mr. Hardy's arrival?"
"And went away on the six-forty-three," said Mrs. Wilson. "I remember it was six minutes late, and I did think my dinner would be dry as a bone, for she said she couldn't stay——"
"And that was his birthday," Garrison interrupted.
"Oh, no. His birthday was the day he died. I remember, 'cause he wouldn't even open the box of cigars till after his dinner that day."
Garrison felt his remaining ray of hope faintly flicker and expire.
"You are sure the box wasn't opened?" he insisted.
"I guess I am! He borrowed my screwdriver out of the sewin'-machine drawer, where I always keep it, to pry up the cover."