And there was something so piteous, so terrible, in the eyes that looked up into his that he quailed before that searching accusing glance.
“The one thing we know for certain is that Emily Garlett died as the result of a huge dose of arsenic,” he said quietly.
He stood up, and, putting out his hands, raised her from the ground. “If you want to help this man, you must face the truth, my dear.”
“The truth?” she echoed.
“The truth that the whole world, on the evidence now available, will consider Garlett guilty. You, I understand, believe him to be absolutely innocent?”
“Absolutely innocent,” she repeated, in a steady voice; but in her wide-open eyes there was a look of anguished questioning as to what he believed.
Dr. Maclean could not face that look, and, hardly knowing what he was doing, he walked over to the window and looked out into the wintry garden.
Behind him were uttered tonelessly the words: “Would you mind my sending a telegram to Mr. Kentworthy?”
He turned round. “Do so, by all means. And then I suppose we’d better go and see Mr. Toogood, and I’ll apply for permission to see Garlett.”
“Do go on calling him Harry, Uncle Jock!”