She paused a moment.

“I went away after the trial.  I was very ill, and Tommy took me to a little place called Looe, down in Cornwall.  We stayed there nearly six months.  When I came back I took the flat next to him and called myself Miss Vivien.  I had made up my mind then what I was going to do.  You see there were only two possible ways in which I could help you.  One was to find out who killed Marks, and the other was to get you out of prison—­anyhow.  Of course, after the trial, it seemed madness to think about the first, but then I just had three things to go on.  I knew that you were innocent, I knew that for some reason of his own George had lied about you, and I knew that there had been some one else in the flat the day of the murder.”

“The man who was with Marks when you arrived,” I said.  “But you saw him go away, and there was nothing to connect him with the murder, except the fact that he didn’t turn up at the trial.  Sexton himself had to admit that in his speech.”

“There was his face,” said Joyce quietly.  “It was a dreadful face.  It looked as if all the goodness had been burned out of it.”

“There are about five hundred gentlemen like that in Princetown,” I said, “including several of the warders.  Did they ever find out anything about him?”

Joyce shook her head.  “Mr. Sexton did everything he could, but it was quite useless.  Whoever he was, the man never came forward, and you see there was no one except me who even knew what he was like.  It was partly that which first gave me the idea of becoming a palmist.  I thought that up here in the West End I was more likely to come across him than anywhere else.  And then there were other people I meant to meet—­men in the Government who might be able to get your sentence shortened.  I knew I was beautiful, and with some men you can do anything if you’re beautiful, and—­and you don’t care.”

“Joyce!” I cried, “for God’s sake don’t tell me—­”

“No,” she broke in passionately:  “there’s nothing to tell you.  But if the chance had come I’d have sold myself a thousand times over to get you out of prison.  The only man I’ve met who could do anything has been Lord Lammersfield, and he....”  She paused, then with a little break in her voice she added:  “Well, I think Lord Lammersfield is rather like Tommy in some ways.”

“I suppose there are still one or two white men about,” I said.

“Lord Lammersfield used to be at the Home Office once, so of course his influence would count for a great deal.  Well, he did all that was possible for me, but about six months ago he told me that there was no chance of your being let out for another three years.  It was then that I made up my mind to get to know George.”

I thrust my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cigarette case.  “You—­you’ve got rather thorough ideas about friendship, Joyce,” I said, a little unsteadily.  “Can I smoke?”