at her again from under half-closed lashes, and her imperious beauty did its work.
“That is all,” he said abruptly. “You may go, Miss Croydon.”
Godfrey watched her as she lowered her veil, rose, stepped down, and took Drysdale’s arm. She had carried it off well, exceedingly well. Her attitude had been so frank, so candid, so openly sincere that he himself was almost convinced by it. But for that instant’s agitation when she first received the prisoner, he would have been quite convinced. She had told her story and answered Goldberg’s questions with clear cheek and steady eye—with a directness which had plainly carried great weight with the jury. Wonderful was the adjective which Godfrey used in describing her to himself.
But what had that instant’s agitation meant? Was Jimmy really guilty? Was she trying to shield him, out of gratitude, perhaps, for defending her? Had Jimmy risen to that height of chivalry? See with what a fascinated gaze he was watching her now!
She passed from sight, the door closed, and he leaned back in his chair to hear Jimmy tell a smooth story of his doings the night before. Magraw and half a dozen others confirmed the tale; it was a really good alibi, carefully arranged; there was nothing to disprove it, and at the end, the jury, without retiring, handed in the usual verdict of death at the hands of a person unknown.
When it was over, Simmonds crooked at Godfrey an inviting finger, and together they went down to the detective’s private office.
