As was only natural, nine times out of ten, the lady—for it was generally a lady who asked him the indiscreet question—afterward told her husband, her friends, and her acquaintances, that Dr. Maclean, though he was too kind to say so, undoubtedly believed Harry Garlett guilty, for the simple reason that had he thought Garlett innocent there was no reason in the world why he should not have said so right out.
But if Dr. Maclean found it far from easy to put off his patients, his real trouble in connection with the painful mystery with which all their hearts were filled was with his one-time happy home.
Jean Bower’s eyes followed him about as a dog’s eyes follow his master. She never actually asked him to declare his belief in her lover’s innocence, yet he always felt that she was asking him, mutely, for some such declaration.
At last, feeling he could bear her speechless interrogation no longer, he put his arm round her shoulder and said very quietly: “It’s no good, Jean! I’m an honest man, and I can’t deceive you. I would like with all my heart to feel sure that Harry is absolutely innocent, but the truth is I can’t make up my mind.”
As for Mrs. Maclean, she longed to talk the whole matter out with Jean, but her Scotch reserve kept her silent. Even Elsie said nothing, but more than once Jean heard her administer a vigorous, well-directed snub at some one who tried to engage her in conversation at the back door on what had now become the forbidden subject at Bonnie Doon.
But if that strange, unnatural silence was preserved in Dr. Maclean’s house, that was not the case anywhere else. Within a circuit of thirty miles round, Harry Garlett and his affairs were discussed constantly, and that by men and women of every class and kind, of every social position, of every degree of poverty and wealth. Strange rumours flew hither and thither, some of them absurdly false.
One fact gradually emerged. Little by little it became known that no arsenic had been traced to the possession of the man now lying under remand in Grendon prison. This was the missing link in the chain of circumstantial evidence which, it was beginning to be believed, would certainly in the end hang the famous cricketer. Meanwhile, not only the local papers, but the great London papers had become busy over the case. Harry Garlett’s special interest in life, his wonderful cricketing records, his popularity, his character as an employer, everything and anything that touched on his personality, was made the subject of comment.
Often during that long week Jean Bower felt as though she had fallen into a bath of ill-smelling mud from whose stains she would never be wholly cleansed. British law considers a man innocent until he is proved guilty, but it is amazing what the English language can do in the way of innuendo, and that without in any way sailing too near the dangerous law of libel.
Half way through that terrible week of waiting suspense there came to Jean one happy hour. Dr. Maclean had insisted that the girl should go out with him, if only to get a little fresh air, and they were both coming in tired from a long round when they saw Elsie’s face at the kitchen window. Before the doctor had time to jump out of his two-seater she was at the door.
“Mr. Kentworthy has arrived, sir. He’s with the mistress in the dining room. She has given him some tea. He’s fair longing to see you and Miss Jean!”