He could not face her—his first thought had been to see her and speak of the terrible nature of the indictment hanging over her like the sword of Damocles, suspended by a single hair—perhaps she was influenced by some strange power the artist possessed—mesmerized, made a slave by some peculiar phase in a powerful organization—Eric had known of such things, although he did not pretend to understand them.
When he came to think it over, however, he concluded that he could not muster up courage enough to say these things to her face.
He was certain that, strong-nerved man as he was, he would utterly fail when he sat opposite those eyes, and felt them upon him.
Was there any other source to which he might apply?
What of Paul Prescott?
The thought seemed absurd at first but presently he began to realize that there was a chance back of it.
The man was a character and might not be as bad as appearances indicated.
Perhaps moral suasion might influence him, and in case that failed a threat would possibly have the desired effect.
The more he thought over the matter the better he looked upon the idea.