He put his hand lightly on Harry Garlett’s free arm.
“I now arrest you,” he said solemnly, “on a serious charge—that of having murdered your wife, Mrs. Emily Garlett, on the twenty-seventh of last May.”
It was the first time that such a duty had fallen to Inspector Johnson, and he looked far more moved than did the man he had just put under arrest.
“I must warn you,” he went on, “that anything you say henceforth may be used in evidence against you.” And then inconsequently, he added: “Have you nothing to say, Mr. Garlett?”
“The only thing I have to say,” said Harry Garlett, “is that I am innocent.”
He gently freed his arm from Jean Bower’s detaining hand. “You must go home now,” he said quietly, “and tell your uncle and aunt what has happened.”
He turned to the inspector. “I take it, Mr. Johnson, that I shall be allowed all reasonable opportunities of seeing my friends?”
“That is so,” said the man.
Then he made a sign to his subordinate, and they both turned their backs while their prisoner and the girl who loved him bade each other a silent, apparently an unemotional farewell.
But when she got out of doors, in front of the house, Jean suddenly turned faint and giddy; it was as if her mind became a blank. She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God,” she prayed, “make me keep my reason—and help me to help Harry.”