“We—you and I—have this in common, Miss Jean. You believe in Harry Garlett’s innocence, and I know he is innocent.”
She answers dreamily, “I know it, too. I more than believe, I know that Harry is innocent.”
And from her unseen friend there come again brave, comforting words:
“We must put our wits together, and think of something that will make other people believe him innocent.”
“I can’t think of anything,” she says wearily, “can you? Oh, do try, dream-friend!”
She finds it so delicious to be lulled by that deep, caressing voice, even though she knows it is only a dream-voice.
“Have you never thought that Mrs. Garlett might have taken the poison herself?”
She answers, as if hypnotized: “Do you think so?” and quickly the answer comes back out of the darkness: “Why not? There’s only one thing worth having in life—and that one thing the poor soul lacked.”
One thing worth having? What can he mean? Jean is losing hold of herself, she is beginning to feel extraordinarily drowsy.
“The one thing worth having in this queer life of ours is love,” whispers the tender, mocking voice. “Mrs. Garlett had no love in her life, and even she must have known that life is not worth living without love.”