The lawyer sat looking straight
before him, with a ghastly countenance.
"I told him he meant _this_," he said to himself, in a hoarse whisper. "I
told him in this office not six months ago. Powers of hell, what a
villain he is! And there are people who do not believe there is a devil!"
For a few moments Valentine gave free vent to his passion of grief. These
tears of rage, of agony the most supreme, were the first he had shed
since he had bent his face over Charlotte's soft brown hair, to hide the
evidence of his sorrow. When he had dashed these bitter drops away from
his burning eyes, he turned to confront George Sheldon, pale as death,
but very calm. And after this he gave way no more to his passion. He was
matched against Time, of all enemies the most pitiless and unrelenting,
and every minute wasted was a point scored by his foe.
"I want your help, George Sheldon," he said. "If you have ever been sorry
that you made no effort to save Charlotte Halliday's father, prove
yourself his friend by trying to save her."
"_If_ I have ever been sorry!" echoed the lawyer. "Why, my miserable
dreams have never been free from the horror of that man's face. You don't
know what it is--murder! Nobody knows who hasn't been concerned in it.
You read of murders in your newspapers. A shot B, or C poisoned D, and so
on, all through the letters of the alphabet, with a fresh batch for every
Sunday; but it never comes home to you.
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