CHAPTER II
concerning the corpse
"Thank God, I've found you!"
As the servant closed the door, Reggie Pardell, in evening-dress, his flabby face pallid, almost ashen, sank into a chair.
George Harding rose hastily.
The K.C. looked down at the frightened figure in the chair, went into the dining-room, and returned with a brandy-and-soda.
"Drink that," he said.
While Reggie drank with long gulps, his eyes stared at the gaunt barrister.
As he scanned the clear-cut, intellectual face, with its piercing grey eyes, its long, sinister, thin nose and tight-shut vigorous mouth, he felt a sensation of returning confidence. At the same time, also, there floated through his mind a feeling of irrelevant despair. Each was thirty-eight years of age. They had been at Christchurch together. George was a brilliant advocate and Reggie was—well, Reggie was an ex-black sheep. A passion for backing losers had been his undoing.
Harding took away the glass.
"Feel better?" he asked.
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