"Yes—that's it, Natalia," Sargent answered, his brows knitted close together. "It seems to have ruined my whole outlook. I can't think of anything else. All the way home I could see nothing but that man's face. I believe I'm beginning to lose hope, too. Would you be sorry if Mr. Jervais won the case from me?"
Natalia looked up at him, drawing the pony to a sudden standstill in her amazement.
"Mr. Jervais can't do that! You wouldn't let him! I hate him anyhow!" She clenched her little hand. "Please don't let him win."
"Suppose I can not help myself? Suppose he has all the evidence on his side? What can I do then?"
"Well—" she said slowly, as if attempting to arrive at some conclusion. "Well—isn't Phelps a murderer?"
"Every one thinks so. But I can not prove it."
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then," with an impatient toss of the head, "it's just as easy as can be. Make him say it is so."
Sargent threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in many days. And all the while Natalia stared at him with an expression that spoke eloquently surprise and wounded pride.