"Oh, I don't think it can be that girl!"
Mark Gifford looked surprised and perturbed.
"But I know it's that girl. She's become quite a friend of mine, and of Bubbles. Oh, Mark, I do hope Helen Brabazon won't be brought into this dreadful business—d'you think that will be really necessary?"
"I don't know," he said slowly. "But some of our people think that Varick may put up a fight. British criminal law is much too kind to murderers. Even if there's evidence enough to hang a man ten times over, there's always a sporting chance he may get off! There is in this case."
Blanche turned suddenly very pale. The full realization of what those words meant rushed upon her. He feared she was going to faint.
"Forgive me," she muttered. "It's stupid, I know; but you must remember that—that I've known Lionel Varick a long time."
"I'm not a bit surprised that you are so distressed," he said soothingly.
And then something happened which did surprise Mark Gifford! He was supposed to be a clever, intelligent man, and there were many people who went in awe of him; but he knew very little about women. This, perhaps, was why he felt utterly astounded when Blanche suddenly burst into tears, and began rocking herself backwards and forwards. "Oh, Mark!" she sobbed. "Oh, Mark, I'm so unhappy,—I'm so miserable—I'm so frightened. Do—do help me!"
"That's just what I came to do," he said simply. But he was very much troubled. Her face was full of a kind of agonized appeal....
Greatly daring, he bent down over her, and gathered her into his arms.