Dr. Maclean rose from his chair; he put his arm round the girl’s shoulder. “Yes,” he said quietly, “you have guessed aright, Jean. The exhumation is to take place to-night, and Harry and I will both, of course, be present.”
He could feel her trembling, and he saw her right hand open and shut.
“You must remind yourself,” he went on, “that what is going to be done to-night marks the beginning of the end—as far as Harry’s painful ordeal is concerned. You and I know—indeed I am convinced that even those who have ordered the exhumation feel as sure of it as we do—that the result will be nil; that is to say, from our point of view, absolutely satisfactory.”
“I know that,” she murmured in a strangled voice. “But I don’t feel as if that knowledge made the shame of it any easier to bear—now.”
He felt startled. It was the first time that Jean had admitted that there was any shame to be faced.
“Nonsense!” he exclaimed vigorously. “Think what you would be feeling—what I should be feeling—if we had the slightest doubt about the matter?”
She had moved away, and was looking at him with wide-open eyes.
“I—I don’t understand,” she stammered.
“Forget yourself and Harry for a moment.” He felt that a touch of sternness, even of roughness, would do the girl good just now. “Think of what the innocent friends, ay, and lovers, of a real murderer must feel when the net is slowly but inexorably closing round him. Supposing you half suspected, or a quarter suspected, or even a hundredth part suspected—the man you love?”
The girl smiled; but it was a wan, pitiful smile.