She looked him full in the face and held out her hand, which he pressed warmly.
“You are a brave girl,” he said. But once in her own room, her nerve gave way. She stood before the mirror and laughed hysterically.
“Yes,” she cried, “I am a brave girl.”
CHAPTER XI
He was remanded for a week: a week of feverish public excitement and of great suspense for those that loved him. His name was dragged through the mire of the roadways, then held up to execration. He had feasted at an old man’s table, and, before the generous glow of the host’s wine had had time to cool, had foully murdered him for money. Imagination boggled at the conception of a meaner miscreant. Thus the man in the street, who is seldom guided by the abstract principle of British justice. The press began to spread abroad a horrible fame. A poet, a brilliant advocate, a man in the public eye; they extolled his achievements. Those to whom his name had been hitherto unknown forgot their ignorance and feigned long acquaintance. His poems were read by self-conscious hundreds. Stories of forensic triumphs recapitulated by half-penny evening newspapers, with sensational exaggeration, brought his fame as an advocate whither no poetry ever penetrated. His friends stood by sickened and helpless.
“If he gets off, there’ll be a boom in Colmans,” said a cynical clubman to a friend. “He’ll be the darling of the boudoir and the champion of the thieves’ kitchen. He always was a lucky beggar.”
“Hush, there’s Merriam at your elbow,” whispered the other.
But Gerard had overheard. He gave the speaker an inscrutable look and passed on.