Jean Bower sat in the waiting room of what was called the New Prison. Though she was clad in a warm fur cloak which had just been given her by her uncle and aunt, she felt dreadfully cold. She was miserably anxious and uneasy as to her coming interview with Harry Garlett. How could she ask the man she loved so degrading a question—how make him understand the great importance all those concerned with his defence attached to what she took to be a lying bit of low gossip?
The door of the waiting room opened and Colonel Brackbury walked in.
“Miss Bower? I had the pleasure of meeting you early last May.” And then he shook hands with her warmly. But although he was touched at his visitor’s look of deep sadness and at the pallor of her young face, he hardened himself to say that which he knew m
