Sir Harold smiled when he saw that the pictures were grouped round his own comely, bewigged visage. He noted that a delightful-looking country house was flanked by two portraits, the one being that of a pleasant-faced man in a cricketing cap, while the other was a charming-looking girl in V. A. D. uniform. In somewhat painful contrast below, was a large photograph, evidently taken a great many years ago, of a plain-looking woman in an old-fashioned wedding dress.
The barrister had mastered enough of the story to realize that the handsome cricketer was Harry Garlett, the man about to be tried for his life, and the sweet-faced young nurse Jean Bower, the girl to whom Garlett was now engaged, and who was supposed to have provided the motive for his having poisoned his unattractive-looking wife.
As for the central portrait—the counterfeit presentment of himself—the caption which declared him to be “the most famous criminal lawyer of our day” gave Sir Harold pleasure, though it no longer bore the delicious thrill of novelty.
As he laid the sheet down on his writing table, the door opened and his clerk came in: “A young lady to see you, Sir Harold. She says she would rather not give her name.”
The great advocate looked sharply at his faithful henchman.
“I suppose you told her that I only see people by appointment?”
“I did tell her that, Sir Harold, but she said she did hope you would break your rule this time.”
“A nice young lady—a pretty young lady, Fulford?” asked Sir Harold.
He was fiddling about the papers which were on his table, and he did not look at his clerk as he put the question.
“Well, yes, Sir Harold, a very pretty young lady, quite young, too, if you’ll excuse my mentioning it.”