“In nine days.”
“That’s very near,” he muttered, “nearer than I thought. Are you dreading the witness-box? My sister is horribly afraid of it—I know that much about her.”
She made no answer to that, and he muttered: “Poor little girl—poor, pretty little girl. Too bad! Too bad!”
And again Jean Bower felt sure they had met—nay, even more, that he had uttered pitying, familiar words to her before. But as to when and where, memory supplied no clue.
Guy Cheale lay back on his pillows. He closed his eyes, and Jean felt a pang of sick fear. Ought she to call his sister and Mrs. Lightfoot?
Suddenly he opened his eyes. “Your guardian angel surely brought you here to-night.”
“Why?” she asked.
“In order that I might cheer you up by telling you that Harry Garlett is sure to be acquitted, to be given, as it were, the benefit of the doubt.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Jean in a trembling tone.
She was sobbing now, bitterly. He leaned over with difficulty and took her soft right hand in his bony fingers.