“All right. Show her in.”
While awaiting his visitor he idly opened a letter marked “Urgent and confidential” which lay on the top of the pile of envelopes.
It contained the following words:
It is because there are villains like you in the world ready to defend any rascal, however guilty, that men murder women, trusting to you to get them off.
Another tribute to his marvellous gift of advocacy! He read the ill-written sentence again, and it was with a broad smile that he greeted the very charming-looking girl who advanced nervously into the big, comfortably furnished room.
“Sit down,” he said with a kindly smile; and timidly his visitor accepted his invitation.
“I hope you will not mind telling me your name? Remember, my dear young lady, that wise people tell everything to their doctor and their lawyer!”
“My name,” she said quietly, “is Jean Bower, and I am engaged to be married to Mr. Henry Garlett.”
As she uttered these words, there was no trace of a smile on her face, and it was then—for perhaps his knowledge of human nature had not gone as far as he thought it had—that Sir Harold Anstey realized for the first time that his visitor looked unutterably sad. Had she not been so young, and, yes, so attractive, he would have seen at once that she was spent with anxiety and suffering.
It must be admitted, though the fact did not redound to his credit, that Sir Harold’s manner underwent a quick and subtle change. It became, in place of deferential, familiar.