"But not insurmountable," replied the lawyer. "Dr. Whipple happens to be the most methodical of men. 'At 3:48 p. m., on Saturday, June 28, I took Mr. Harry Arnold's pulse in his own room at Woodlawn,' said he, consulting his notes. 'It was eighty-three beats to the minute.'"
"Rather high," said Robert.
"'Abnormal,' Dr. Whipple observed, 'something on his mind, I should say. Overexcitement, worry, the fever of modern life.' His diagnosis was incorrect; but the time is important. The fire was discovered, you remember, at 3:30."
"So Harry couldn't have set it and got to Woodlawn," said Robert, as if sincerely glad.
"Not in his mother's carriage, as I had surmised," said Shagarach. "But an express train leaves the Southern depot at 3:29. It arrives in Woodlawn at 3:45. Harry crossed Broad street from the passageway after setting fire to the study—it is barely a minute's walk—there caught the train and reached Woodlawn at 3:45. His house is close to the station. Dr. Whipple found him feverish and with rapid pulse from the excitement of his crime and the hurried escape."
"His mother stated, however, when she called, earlier in the afternoon, that she had left him at home ill," said Robert, thoughtfully.
"She is solicitous about his delicate health," said Shagarach, with almost imperceptible irony. The delicate health of the powerful canoeist, the victorious steeplechaser, need hardly weigh on the most tender mother's mind. This was their last consultation before the trial, and the lawyer shook Robert's hand with a word of encouragement when he left the young man to his hopes and forebodings.
The lawyer turned into a byway which carried him through the Ghetto.
Solomon and Rachel were sitting on their doorsteps, fanning away the heat of the August afternoon.
"There goes Shagarach," said someone.