He saw a look of astonishment flash across Jean Bower’s flushed face.
“To you,” he exclaimed, “who believe this man to be innocent, the case is perfectly simple. But if we can produce nothing better than what we have now got, Miss Bower, judge, jury, in fact——” he hesitated and then went on firmly, “everyone in the case will believe that Harry Garlett undoubtedly poisoned his late wife.”
She answered in a low voice: “I do understand that,” and though she did not flinch, a sensation of numb despair took possession of her heart.
“It follows that we must produce something, anything, that will shake the belief of those on whose opinion, Miss Bower, your lover’s life will hang as by a thread.”
She stared at him, fascinated. The real power of the man was beginning to impress her, to make her feel a kind of confidence in him.
He stopped in his pacing and gazed fixedly down into her troubled, quivering, upturned face.
“Will you give me your word of honour that you will never reveal to anybody the fact that I gave you, personally, any advice concerning your own association with the case?”
“I give you my word of honour,” she said quietly.
“It is because I believe you will keep it,” he said seriously, “that I am going to tell you how I think you can help your lover.”
She waited silently till he spoke again.