Higgins had not booked on the P. & O. liner Kashmere which left for Calcutta the following morning, and that there would be no other sailing for the next ten days.
His decision to ask his daughter to come with him had also been made on the spur of the moment.
His wife had died when Jane was a young child, and father and daughter had always been very close. He was very proud of her. He admired her clean, audacious self-reliance, but, too, parentlike, was a little afraid of it.
Thus when Hector, following Mr. Preserved Higgins' exposure, had left the room, and when Jane had turned to him with a flat “I don't believe it. The man is innocent!” his heart had given a bound, for he knew from former experiences her sweeping, uncompromising fashion of taking the part of the underdog. Heretofore, the occasion had usually been with some underfed slum child or some underpaid servant, and had been easily and satisfactorily settled with the help of check book and fountain pen. But this time it was a man, a good-looking and youthful male with romantic eyes, who had flashed a romantic Oriental blade.
“Damn!” Mr. Warburton had said to himself.
Then, in a loud voice, and with an entirely false note of cheerful off-handedness:
“Ridiculous, my dear. The young fellow owned up to it himself.”
“And yet I know he's innocent, dad!”
“How do you know, Jane?”
“Because!”
