Harriet Holden’s friendship and loyalty were a never-ending source of wonderment to him, but he accepted her own explanation, which, indeed, was fair enough, that her innate sense of justice had compelled her to give him her sympathy and assistance.

Just how far that assistance had gone Jimmy did not know, though of late he had come to suspect that his attorney was being retained by Harriet Holden’s father.

Bince appeared in the court-room only when necessity compelled his presence on the witness stand.  The nature of the man’s testimony was such that, like Krovac’s, it was difficult of impeachment, although Jimmy was positive that Bince perjured himself, especially in a statement that he made of a conversation he had with Mr. Compton the morning of the murder, in which he swore that Compton stated that he intended to discharge Torrance that day.

The effect of the trial seemed to have made greater inroads upon Bince than upon Jimmy.  The latter gave no indication of nervous depression or of worry, while Bince, on the other hand, was thin, pale and haggard.  His hands and face continually moved and twitched as he sat in the courtroom or on the witness chair.  Never for an instant was he at rest.

Elizabeth Compton had noticed this fact, too, and commented upon it one evening when Bince was at her home.

“What’s the matter with you, Harold?” she asked.  “You look as though you are on the verge of nervous prostration.”

“I’ve had enough to make any man nervous,” retorted Bince irritably.  “I can’t get over this terrible affair, and in addition I have had all the weight and responsibility of the business on my shoulders since, and the straightening out of your father’s estate, which, by the way, was in pretty bad shape.

“I wish, Elizabeth,” he went on, “that we might be married immediately.  I have asked you so many times before, however, and you have always refused, that I suppose it is useless now.  I believe that I would get over this nervous condition if you and I were settled down here together.  I have no real home, as you know—­the club is just a stopping place.  I might as well be living at a hotel.  If after the day’s work I could come home to a regular home it would do me a world of good, I know.  We could be married quietly.  There is every reason why we should, especially now that you are left all alone.”

“Just what do you mean by immediately?” she asked.

“To-morrow,” he replied.

For a long time she demurred, but finally she acceded to his wishes, for an early marriage, though she would not listen to the ceremony being performed the following day.  They reached a compromise on Friday morning, a delay of only a few days, and Harold Bince breathed more freely thereafter than he had for a long time before.