For a few moments Dorise remained silent, her eyes fixed across the broad river to the opposite bank.
“And if they do, he will most certainly clear himself, Mr. Sherrard,” she said coldly.
“Ah! You still have great faith in him,” he laughed airily. “Well—we shall see,” and he grinned.
“Yes, Mr. Sherrard. I still have faith in Mr. Henfrey. I know him well enough to be certain that he is no assassin.”
“Then I ask you, Dorise, why is he hiding?” said her companion. “If he is innocent, what can he fear?”
“I know he is innocent.”
“Of course. You must remain in that belief until he is found guilty.”
“You already condemn him!” the girl cried in anger. “By what right do you do this, I ask?”
“Well, common sense shows that he is in fear lest the truth should come to light,” was Sherrard’s lame reply. “He escaped very cleverly from Monte Carlo the moment he heard that the police suspected him, but where is he now? Nobody knows. Haynes, of Scotland Yard, who made the inquiries when my flat in Park Lane was broken into, tells me they have had a description of him from the Paris police, and that a general hue-and-cry has been circulated.”
“But the woman is still alive, is she not?”