“Not,” he exclaimed, “because I believe in British justice—far from it—but there’s just one little fact that will save him.”
She looked at him, all her soul now in her eager eyes.
“What fact?” she asked.
“The fact,” he said deliberately, “that no arsenic has been traced to Garlett’s possession. Practically all the resources of the Crown have been used to find where he procured the arsenic—and they have failed.”
“They have not failed,” said Jean quietly, “in finding where Harry could have procured arsenic. I saw Sir Harold Anstey this evening. He told me that Miss Prince, who is a doctor’s daughter and lives close to the Thatched House, has now admitted that she kept quite a lot of arsenic in her medicine cupboard. Miss Prince is Harry’s tenant——”
The sick man dropped her hand and stared at her in dismay.
“My God!” he muttered. “That is a bit of rough luck.”
“I’m going home to-morrow,” Jean went on drearily. “There’s nothing left for me to do here. I’m sorry to be going so—so abruptly, because Mrs. Lightfoot has been very kind to me.”
“Yes, she’s a good old soul.”
He lay back and again shut his eyes. His face had gone very gray. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then he opened his eyes wide again.