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diff --git a/75325-0.txt b/75325-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..091d3a4 --- /dev/null +++ b/75325-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14579 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75325 *** + + +The Bellamy Trial + +by Frances Noyes Hart + +Garden City, New York +Doubleday, Page & Company +Copyright, 1927, Frances Noyes Hart + + + + To my favourite lawyer + Edward Henry Hart + + + +THE BELLAMY TRIAL + + The Judge + Anthony Bristed Carver + + The Prosecutor + Daniel Farr + + Counsel for the Defense + Dudley Lambert + + The Defendants + Susan Ives + Stephen Bellamy + + First Day + Opening speech for the prosecution + + Second Day + Mr. Herbert Conroy, _real estate agent_ + Dr. Paul Stanley, _physician_ + Miss Kathleen Page, _governess_ + + Third Day + Mr. Douglas Thorne, _Susan Ives’s brother_ + Miss Flora Biggs, _Mimi Bellamy’s schoolmate_ + Mrs. Daniel Ives, _Susan Ives’s mother-in-law_ + Mr. Elliot Farwell, _Mimi Bellamy’s ex-fiancé_ + Mr. George Dallas, _Mr. Farwell’s friend_ + + Fourth Day + Miss Melanie Cordier, _waitress_ + Miss Laura Roberts, _lady’s maid_ + Mr. Luigi Orsini, _handy man_ + Mr. Joseph Turner, _bus driver_ + Sergeant Hendrick Johnson, _state trooper_ + + Fifth Day + Opening speech for defence + Mrs. Adolph Platz, _wife of chauffeur_ + Mrs. Timothy Shea, _landlady_ + Mr. Stephen Bellamy + Dr. Gabriel Barretti, _finger-print expert_ + + Sixth Day + Mr. Leo Fox, _mechanician_ + Mr. Patrick Ives, _Susan Ives’s husband_ + Susan Ives + + Seventh Day + Susan Ives—conclusion + Stephen Bellamy—recalled + Closing speech for the defence + Closing speech for prosecution + + Eighth Day + Mr. Randolph Phipps, _high-school principal_ + Miss Sally Dunne, _high-school pupil_ + The judge’s charge + The verdict + + + +CHAPTER I + +The red-headed girl sank into the seat in the middle of the first row +with a gasp of relief. Sixth seat from the aisle—yes, that was right; +the label on the arm of the golden-oak chair stared up at her +reassuringly. Row A, seat 15, Philadelphia _Planet_. The ones on +either side of her were empty. Well, it was a relief to know that +there were four feet of space left unoccupied in Redfield, even if +only temporarily. She was still shaken into breathless stupor by the +pandemonium in the corridors outside—the rattling of regiments of +typewriters, of armies of tickers, the shouts of infuriated denizens +of telephone booths, the hurrying, frantic faces of officials, the +scurrying and scampering of dozens of rusty-haired freckled-faced +insubordinate small boys, whose olive-drab messenger uniforms alone +saved them from extermination; the newspaper men—you could spot them +at once, looking exhausted and alert and elaborately bored; the +newspaper women, keen and purposeful and diverted; and above and +around and below all these licensed inhabitants, the crowd—a vast, +jostling, lunging beast, with one supreme motive galvanizing it to +action—an immense, a devouring curiosity that sent it surging time and +time again against the closed glass doors with their blue-coated +guardians, fragile barriers between it and the consummation of its +desire. For just beyond those doors lay the arena where the beast +might slake its hunger at will, and it was not taking its frustration +of that privilege amiably. + +The red-headed girl set her little black-feathered hat straight with +unsteady fingers. She wasn’t going to forget that crowd in a hurry. It +had growled at her—actually growled—when she’d fought her way through +it, armed with the magic of the little blue ticket that spelled open +sesame as well as press section. Who could have believed that even +curiosity would turn nice old gray-headed ladies and mild-looking +gentlemen with brown moustaches and fat matrons with leather bags and +thin flappers with batik scarfs into one huge ravenous beast? She +panted again, reminiscently, at the thought of the way they’d shoved +and squashed and kneaded—and then settled down to gratified +inspection. + +So this was a courtroom! + +Not a very large or very impressive room, looked at from any angle. It +might hold three hundred people at a pinch, and there were, +conservatively, about three thousand crowding the corridors and +walking the streets of Redfield in their efforts to expand its limits. +Fan-shaped, with nine rows of the golden-oak seats packed with grimly +triumphant humanity, the first three neatly tagged with the little +white labels that metamorphosed them into the press section. +Golden-oak panelling half-way up the walls, and then whitewashed +plaster—rather dingy, smoky plaster, its defects relentlessly revealed +by the pale autumnal sunshine flooding in through the great windows +and the dome of many-coloured glass, lavish and heartening enough to +compensate for much of the grimness and the grime. + +Near enough for the red-headed girl to touch was a low rail, and +beyond that rail a little empty space, like a stage—empty of actors, +but cluttered with chairs and tables. At the back was a small platform +with a great high-backed black leather chair, and a still smaller +platform on a slightly lower level, with a rail about it and a much +more uncomfortable-looking chair. The judge’s seat, the witness +box—she gave a little sigh of pure uncontrollable excitement, and a +voice next to her said affably: + +“Hi! Greetings, stranger, or hail, friend, as the case may be. Can I +get by you into the next seat without damaging you and those feet of +yours materially?” + +The red-headed girl scrambled guiltily to the offending feet, +unobtrusive enough in themselves, but most obtrusively extended across +the narrow passage, and turned a flushed and anxious countenance on +her cheerful critic, now engaged in folding himself competently into +the exiguous space provided by the golden-oak chair. A tall lanky +young man, with a straight nose, mouse-coloured hair, shrewd gray +eyes, and an expression that was intended to be that of a hard-boiled +cynic, and that worked all right unless he grinned. He wore a shabby +tweed suit, a polka-dotted tie, had three very sharp pencils, and a +good-sized stack of telegraph blanks clasped to his heart. Obviously a +reporter—a real reporter. The red-headed girl attempted to conceal her +gold pencil and leather-bound notebook, smiling tentatively and +ingratiatingly. + +“Covering it for a New York paper?” inquired the Olympian one +graciously. + +“No,” said the red-headed girl humbly; “a Philadelphia one—the +Philadelphia _Planet_. Is yours New York?” + +“M’m—h’m—_Sphere_. Doing colour stuff?” + +“Oh, I hope so,” replied the red-headed girl so fervently that the +reporter looked somewhat startled. “You see, I don’t know whether it +will have colour or not. I’m not exactly a regular reporter.” + +“Oh, you aren’t, aren’t you? Well, if it’s no secret, just exactly +what are you? A finger-print expert?” + +“I’m a—a writer,” said the red-headed girl, looking unusually small +and dignified. “This is my first as—assignment.” It was frightful to +stammer just when you particularly wanted not to. + +The real reporter eyed her severely. “A writer, hey? A real, +honest-to-goodness, walking-around writer, with a fountain pen and a +great big vocabulary and a world of promise and everything? Well, I’ll +bet you a hot dog to a soup plate of fresh caviar that about four days +from now you’ll be parading through these marble halls telling the +cockeyed world that you’re a journalist.” + +“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. Do all of you call yourselves journalists?” + +The reporter looked as though he were about to suffocate. “Get this,” +he said impressively: “The day that you hear me call myself a +journalist you have my full and free permission to call me a —— Well, +no, on second thought, a lady couldn’t. But if you ever call me a +journalist, smile. And if you solemnly swear never to call yourself +one I’ll show you the ropes a bit, because you’re a poor ignorant +little writing critter that doesn’t know any better than to come to a +murder trial—and besides that you have red hair. Want to know +anything?” + +“Oh,” cried the red-headed girl, “I didn’t know that anyone so horrid +could be so nice. I want to know everything. Let’s begin at the +beginning.” + +“Well, in case you don’t know where you are, this is the courtroom of +Redfield, county seat of Bellechester, twenty-five miles from the +great metropolis of New York. And in case you’d like to know what it’s +all about, it’s the greatest murder trial of the century—about every +two years another one of ’em comes along. This particular one is the +trial of the People versus Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy for the +wilful, deliberate, and malicious murder of Madeleine Bellamy.” + +“A murder trial,” said the red-headed girl softly. “Well, I should +think that ought to be about the most tremendous thing in the world.” + +“Oh, you do, do you?” remarked the reporter, and for a moment it was +no effort at all for him to look cynical. “Well, I’ll have you called +at about seven to-morrow morning, though it’s a pity ever to wake +anyone up that can have such beautiful dreams as that. The most +tremendous thing in the world, says she. Well, well, well!” + +The red-headed girl eyed him belligerently. “Well, yourself! Perhaps +you’ll be good enough to tell me what’s more tremendous than murder.” + +“Oh, you tell me!” urged the reporter persuasively. + +“All right, I’ll tell you that the only story that you’re going to be +able to interest every human being in, from the President of the +United States to the gentleman who takes away the ashes, is a good +murder story. It’s the one universal solvent. The old lady from +Dubuque will be at it the first thing in the morning, and the young +lady from Park Avenue will be at it the last thing at night. And if +it’s a love story too, you’re lucky, because then you’ve got the +combination that every really great writer that ever lived has picked +out to wring hearts and freeze the marrow in posterity’s bones.” + +“Oh, come! Aren’t you getting just a dash over-wrought? Every great +writer? What about Wordsworth?” + +“Oh, pooh!” said the red-headed girl fiercely. “Wordsworth! What about +Sophocles and Euripides and Shakespeare and Browning? Do you know what +‘The Ring and the Book’ is? It’s a murder trial! What’s ‘Othello’ but +a murder story? What’s ‘Hamlet’ but five murder stories? What’s +‘Macbeth’? Or ‘The Cenci’? Or ‘Lamia’? Or ‘Crime and Punishment’? Or +‘Carmen’? Or——” + +“I give up,” said the reporter firmly—“or, no, wait a moment—can it be +that they are murder stories? Quite a little reader in your quiet way, +aren’t you?” + +The red-headed girl ignored him sternly. “And do you want me to tell +you why it’s the most enthralling and absorbing theme in the world? Do +you?” + +“No,” replied the reporter hastily. “Yes—or how shall I put it? Yes +and no, let’s say.” + +“It’s because it’s real,” said the red-headed girl, with a sudden +startling gravity. “It’s the only thing that’s absolutely real in the +world, I think. Something that makes you reckless enough not to care a +tinker’s dam for your own life or another’s—that’s something to think +about, isn’t it?” + +“Well, yes,” said the reporter slowly. “Now that you put it that way, +that’s something to think about.” + +“It’s good for us, too,” said the girl, “We’re all so everlastingly +canny and competent and sophisticated these days, going mechanically +through a mechanical world, sharpening up our little emotions, tuning +up our little sensations—and suddenly there’s a cry of ‘Murder!’ in +the streets, and we stop and look back, shuddering, over our +shoulder—and across us falls the shadow of a savage with a +bloodstained club, and we know that it’s good and dangerous and +beautiful to be alive.” + +“I rather get you,” said the reporter thoughtfully. “And, strangely +enough, there’s just a dash in what you say. It’s the same nice, +creepy, luxurious feeling that you get when you pull up closer to a +good roaring fire with carpet slippers on your feet and a glass of +something hot and sweet in your hand and listen to the wind yowling +outside and see the rain on the black windowpanes. Nothing in the +world to make you feel warm and safe and sheltered and cozy like a +good storm or a good murder—what?” + +“Nothing in the world,” agreed the red-headed girl; and she added +pensively, “It’s always interested me more than anything else.” + +“Has it indeed? Well, don’t let it get you. I’d just keep it as a +hobby if I were you. At your present gait you’re going to make some +fellow an awfully happy widow one of these days. Are you a good +marksman?” + +“You think that murder’s frightfully amusing, don’t you?” The +red-headed girl’s soft voice had a sudden edge to it. + +The real reporter’s face changed abruptly. “No, I don’t,” he said +shortly. “I think it’s rotten—a dirty, bloody, beastly business that +used to keep me awake nights until I grew a shell over my skin and +acquired a fairly workable sense of humour to use on all these clowns +called human beings. Of course, I’m one of them myself, but I don’t +boast about it. And if you’re suffering from the illusion that nothing +shocks me, I’ll tell you right now that it shocks me any amount that a +scrap of a thing like you, with all that perfectly good red hair and a +rather nice arrangement in dimples, should be practically climbing +over that rail in your frenzy to find out what it’s all about.” + +“I think that men are the most amusing race in the world,” murmured +the red-headed girl. “And I think that it’s awfully appealing of you +to be shocked. But, you see, my grandfather—who was as stern and +Scotch and hidebound as anyone that ever breathed—told me when I was +fourteen years old that a great murder trial was the most superbly +dramatic spectacle that the world afforded. And he ought to have known +what he was talking about—he was one of the greatest judges that ever +lived.” + +“Well, maybe they were in his day. And you said Scotch, didn’t you? +Oh, well, they do it better over there. England, too—bunches of +flowers on the clerks’ tables and wigs on the judges’ heads, and +plenty of scarlet and gold, and all the great lawyers in the land +taking a whack at it, and never a cross word out of one of them——” + +“He used to say that is was like a hunt,” interrupted the red-headed +girl firmly, “with the judge as master of the hounds and the lawyers +as the hounds, baying as they ran hot on the scent, and all the rest +of us galloping hard at their heels—jury, spectators, public.” + +“Sure,” said the reporter grimly. “With the quarry waiting, bound and +shackled and gagged till they catch up with him and tear him to +pieces—it’s a great hunt all right, all right!” + +“It’s not a human being that they’re hunting, idiot—it’s truth.” + +“Truth!” The reporter’s laugh was loud and long and free enough to +cause a dozen heads to turn. “Oh, what you’re going to learn before +you get out of here! A hunt for truth, is it? Well, now, you get this +straight: If that’s what you’re expecting to find here, you’ll save +yourself a whole lot of bad minutes by taking the next train back to +Philadelphia. Truth! I’m not running down murder trials from the point +of view of interest, you understand. A really good one furnishes all +the best points of a first-class dog fight and a highly superior +cross-word puzzle, and that ought to be enough excitement for anyone. +But if you think that the opposing counsel are honestly in pursuit of +enlightenment——” + +A clear high voice cut through the rustle and clatter like a knife. + +“His Honour! His Honour the Court!” There was a mighty rustle of +upheaval. + +“Who’s that?” inquired a breathless voice at the reporter’s shoulder. + +“That’s the tallest and nicest court crier in the United States of +America. Name’s Ben Potts. Best falsetto voice outside the Russian +Orthodox Church. Kindly notice the central hair part and spit curls. +And here we have none other than His Honour himself, Judge Anthony +Bristed Carver.” + +“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye!” chanted the court crier. “All those +having business before this honourable court draw near, give your +attention and you shall be heard!” + +The tall figure in flowing black moved deliberately toward the chair +on the dais, which immediately assumed the aspect of a throne. Judge +Carver’s sleek iron-gray head and aquiline face were an adornment to +any courtroom. He swept a pair of brilliant deep-set eyes over the +room, seated himself, and reached for the gavel in one motion. + +“And he’ll use it, too, believe you me,” murmured the reporter with +conviction. “Sternest old guy on the bench.” + +“Where are the prisoners—where do they come from?” + +“The defendants, as they whimsically prefer to be called for the time +being, come through that little door to the left of the judge’s room; +that enormous red-faced, sandy-haired old duffer talking to the thin +young man in the tortoise-shell glasses is Mrs. Ives’s counsel, Mr. +Dudley Lambert; the begoggled one is Mr. Bellamy’s counsel, Harrison +Clark.” + +“Where’s the prosecutor?” + +“Oh, well, Mr. Farr is liable to appear almost anywhere, like +Mephistopheles in _Faust_ or that baby that so obligingly came out of +the everywhere into the here. He’s all for the unexpected— Ah, what +did I tell you? There he is now, conferring with the judge and the +defense counsel.” + +The red-headed girl leaned forward eagerly. The slender individual, +leaning with rather studied ease against the railing that hedged in +the majesty of the law, suggested a curious cross between a promising +light of Tammany Hall and the youngest and handsomest of the Spanish +Inquisitioners. Black hair that deserved the qualification of raven, a +pale regular face that missed distinction by a destructive quarter of +an inch, narrow blue eyes back of which stirred some restless fire, +long slim hands—what was there about him that wasn’t just right? +Perhaps that dark coat fitted him just a shade too well, or that +heavily brocaded tie in peacock blue— Well, at any rate, his slim +elegance certainly made Lambert look like an awkward, cross, red-faced +baby, for all his thatch of graying hair. + +“Here they come!” Even the reporter’s level, mocking voice was a +trifle tense. + +The little door to the left of the judge opened and two people came +in, as leisurely and tranquilly as though they were advancing toward +easy chairs and a tea table before an open fire. A slight figure in a +tan tweed suit, with a soft copper silk handkerchief at her throat and +a little felt hat of the same colour pulled down over two wings of +pale gold hair, level hazel eyes under level dark brows, and a +beautiful mouth, steady-lipped, generous, sensitive—the most beautiful +mouth, thought the red-headed girl, that she had ever seen. She +crossed the short distance between the door and the chair beside which +stood Mr. Lambert with a light, boyish swing. She looked rather like a +boy—a gallant, proud little boy, striding forward to receive the +victor’s laurels. Did murderesses walk like that? + +Behind her came Stephen Bellamy, the crape band on his dark coat +appallingly conspicuous; only a few inches taller than Sue Ives, with +dark hair lightly silvered, and a charming, sensitive, olive-skinned +face. As they seated themselves, he flashed the briefest of smiles at +his companion—a grave, consoling smile, singularly sweet—then turned +an attentive countenance to the judge. Did a murderer smile like that? + +The red-headed girl sat staring at them blankly. + +“Oh, Lord!” moaned the reporter at her side. “Why did that old jackass +Lambert let her come in here in that rig? If he had the sense that God +gives a dead duck he’d know that she ought to be wearing something +black and frilly and pitiful instead of stamping around in brown +leather Oxfords as though she were headed straight for the first tee +instead of the electric chair.” + +“Oh, don’t!” The red-headed girl’s voice was passionate in its +protest. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Look, what are +they doing now? What’s that wheel?” + +“That’s for choosing the jury; it looks as though they were going to +start right now. Yes, they’re off; that’s the sheriff spinning the +wheel. He calls the names——” + +“Timothy Forbes!” + +A stocky man with a small shrewd eye and a reddish moustache wormed +his way forward. + +“Number 1! Take your seat in the box.” + +“Will it take long?” asked the red-headed girl. + +“Alexander Petty!” + +“Not at this rate,” replied the reporter, watching the progress toward +the jury box of a tow-headed little man with steel-bowed spectacles +and a suit a little shiny at the elbows. + +“This is going to be just as rapid as the law allows, I understand. +Both sides are rarin’ to go, and they’re not liable to touch their +peremptory challenges; and they’re not likely to challenge for cause, +either, unless it’s a darned good cause.” + +“Eliphalet Slocum!” + +A keen-faced elderly man with a mouth like a steel trap joined the men +in the box. + +“It’s a special panel that they’re choosing from,” explained the +reporter, lowering his voice cautiously as Judge Carver glanced +ominously in his direction. “Redfield’s pretty up and coming for a +place of its size. All the obviously undesirables are weeded out, so +it saves an enormous amount of time.” + +“Cæsar Smith!” + +Mr. Smith advanced at a trot, his round, amiable countenance beamingly +exposing three gold teeth to the pleased spectators. + +“Robert Angostini.” + +A dark and dapper individual with a silky black moustache slipped +quietly by Mr. Smith. + +“Number 5, take your place in the box. . . . George Hobart.” + +An amiable-looking youth in a brown Norfolk jacket advanced briskly. + +“Who’s that coming in now?” inquired the red-headed girl in a stealthy +whisper. + +“Where?” + +“In the witnesses’ seats—over in the corner by the window. The tall +man with the darling little old lady.” + +The reporter turned his head, his boredom lit by a transient gleam of +interest. “That? That’s Pat Ives and his mother. She’s been subpœnaed +by the state as a witness—God knows what for.” + +“I love them when they wear bonnets,” said the red-headed girl. +“What’s he like?” + +“Pat? Well, take a good look at him; that’s what he’s like.” + +The red-headed girl obediently took a good look. Black hair, blue +eyes, black with pain, set in a haggard, beautiful young face that +looked white to the bone, a reckless mouth set in a line of +desperation. + +“He doesn’t look very contented,” she commented mildly. + +“And his looks don’t belie him,” the reporter assured her drily. +“Young Mr. Ives belongs to the romantic school—you know—the guardsman, +the troubadour, the rover, and the lover; the duel by candlelight, the +rose in the moonlight, the dice, the devil and boots, saddle, to horse +and away. The type that muffs it when he’s thrown into a show that +deals in the crude realism of spilled kerosene and bloody rags and an +Italian labourer’s stuffy little front parlour. Mix him up with that +and he gets shadows under his eyes and three degrees of fever and bad +dreams. Also, he gets a little irritable with reporters.” + +“Did you interview him?” inquired the red-headed girl in awe-stricken +tones. + +“Well, that’s a nice way of putting it,” said the reporter +thoughtfully. “I went around to the Ives’ house with one or two other +scientific spirits on the night after Sue Ives and Bellamy were +arrested—June twenty-first, if my memory serves me. We rang the +doorbell none too optimistically, and the door opened so suddenly that +we practically fell flat on our faces in the front hall. There stood +the debonair Mr. Ives, in his shirt sleeves, with as unattractive a +look on his face as I’ve ever seen in my life. + +“‘Come right in, gentlemen,’ says he, and he made that sound +unattractive too. ‘I’m not mistaken, am I? It’s the gentlemen of the +press that I’m addressing?’ We allowed without too much enthusiasm +that such was indeed the case, and in we came. ‘Let’s get right down +to business,’ he said. ‘None of this absurd delicacy that uses up all +your energy,’ says he. ‘What you gentlemen want to know, I’m sure, is +whether I was Madeleine Bellamy’s lover and whether my wife was her +murderess. That’s about it, isn’t it?’ + +“It was just about it, but somehow, the way he put it, it sounded not +so good. ‘Well,’ said Ives, ‘I’ll give you a good straight answer to a +good straight question. Get to hell out of here!’ says he, and he +yanks the front door open so wide that it would have let out an army. + +“Just as I was thinking of something really bright to come back with, +a nice soft little voice in the back of the hall said, ‘Oh, Pat +darling, do be careful. You’ll wake up the babies. I’m sure that these +gentlemen will come back another time.’ And Mrs. Daniel Ives trotted +up and put one hand on his arm and smiled a nice, worried, polite +little smile at us. + +“And Pat darling smiled, too, not so everlastingly politely, and said, +‘I’m sure they will—I’m sure of it. Four o’clock in the morning’s a +good time too.’ And we decided that was as good a time as any and we +went away from there. And here we are. And if you don’t look sharp +they’ll have a jury before you understand why I know that Mr. Ives is +the romantic type that lets realism get on his nerves. What number is +that heading for the box now?” + +“Otto Schultz!” + +A cozy white-headed cherub trotted energetically up. + +“Number 10, take your place in the box!” + +“Josiah Morgan!” + +“Gosh, they’ll get the whole panel in under an hour!” exulted the +reporter. “Look at the fine hatchet face on Morgan, will you? I bet +the fellow that tries to sell Josh a lame horse will live to rue the +day.” + +“Charles Stuyvesant!” + +Charles Stuyvesant smiled pleasantly at the sheriff, his fine +iron-gray head and trim shoulders standing out sharply against his +overgroomed and undergroomed comrades in the box. + +“Number 12, take your place in the box! You and each of you do +solemnly swear that you will well and truly try Stephen Bellamy and +Susan Ives, and a true verdict give according to the law and evidence, +so help you God?” + +Above the grave answering murmur the red-headed girl begged nervously, +“What happens now?” + +“I don’t know—recess, maybe—wait, the judge is addressing the jury.” + +Judge Carver’s deep voice rang out impressively in the still +courtroom: + +“Gentlemen of the jury, you will now be given the usual +admonition—that you are not to discuss this case amongst yourselves, +or allow anybody else to discuss it with you, outside your own body. +You are not to form or express any opinion about the merits of the +controversy. You are to refrain from speaking of it to anybody, or +from allowing anybody to speak to you with respect to any aspect of +this case. If this occurs you will communicate it to the Court at +once. You are to keep your judgment open until the defendants have had +their side of the case heard, and, lastly, you are to make up your +judgment solely on the law, which is the last thing that you will hear +from the Court in its charge. Until then, you will not be able to +render a verdict in accordance with the law, and therefore you must +suspend judgment until that time. The Court is dismissed for the noon +recess. We will reconvene at one o’clock.” + +The red-headed girl turned eyes round as saucers on the reporter. +“Don’t they come back till one?” + +“They do not.” + +“What do we do until then?” + +“We eat. There’s a fair place on the next corner.” + +The red-headed girl waved it away. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly eat—not +possibly. It’s like the first time I went to the theatre; I was only +seven, but I remember it perfectly. I sat spang in the middle of the +front row, just like this, and I made my governess take me three +quarters of an hour too early, and I sat there getting sicker and +sicker from pure excitement, wondering what kind of a new world was +behind that curtain—what kind of a strange, beautiful, terrible world. +I sat there feeling more frightful every second, and all of a sudden +the curtain went up with a jerk and I let out a shriek that made +everyone in the theatre and on the stage jump three feet in the air. I +feel exactly like that now.” + +“Well, get hold of yourself. Shrieking isn’t popular around here. If +you sit right there like a good quiet child I may bring you back an +apple. I don’t promise anything, but I may.” + +She was still sitting there when he came back with the apple, crunched +up in her chair, staring at the jury box with eyes rounder than ever. + +“Isn’t it nearly time?” She eyed the apple ungratefully. + +“It is. Come on now, eat it, and I’ll show you what I’ve got in my +pocket.” + +“Show?” + +“The jury list—names, addresses, ages, professions and all. Two of +them are under thirty, three under forty, four under fifty, two under +sixty, one sixty-two. Three merchants, two clerks, two farmers, an +insurance man, an accountant, a radio expert, a jeweller and a banker. +Not a bad list at all, if you ask me. Charles Stuyvesant’s the only +one that won’t have a good clubby time of it. He’s one of the richest +bankers in New York.” + +“He looked it,” said the red-headed girl. “What will they do when they +come back?” + +“Well, if they’re good, the prosecutor’s going to make them a nice +little speech.” + +“Who is the prosecutor? Is he well known?” + +“Mr. Daniel Farr is a promising young lad of about forty who is +extremely well known in these parts, and if you asked him his own +unbiassed opinion of his abilities, he would undoubtedly tell you that +with a bit of luck he ought to be President of these United States in +the next ten years.” + +“And what do you think of him?” + +“Well, I think that he may be, at that, and I add in passing that I +consider that no tribute to the judgment of these United States. He’s +about as shrewd as they make ’em, but I’m not convinced that he’s a +very good lawyer. He goes in too much for purple patches and hitting +about three inches below the belt for my simple tastes. And he works +on the theory that the jury is not quite all there, which may be amply +justified but is a little trying for the innocent bystander. He goes +in for poetry, too—oh, not Amy Lowell or Ezra Pound, but something +along the lines of ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not +honour more,’ and ‘How dear to my heart are the scenes of my +childhood’—you know the kind of thing—deep stuff.” + +“Is he successful?” + +“Oh, by all manner of means. Twenty years ago he was caddie master at +the Rosemont Country Club; five years before that he was a caddie +there. America, my child, is the land of opportunity. He’s magnificent +when he gets started on the idle rich; it’s all right to be rich if +you’re not idle—or well born. If you’re one of those well born society +devils, you might just as well go and jump in the lake, if you ask Mr. +Farr.” + +“Does he still live in Rosemont?” + +“No, hasn’t lived there for nineteen years; but I don’t believe that +he’s forgotten one single snub or tip that he got in the good old +days. Every now and then you can see him stop and turn them over in +his mind.” + +“What’s Mr. Lambert like?” + +“Ah, there is a horse of a different colour—a cart horse of a +different colour, if I may go so far. Mr. Dudley Lambert is a lawyer +who knows everything that there is to know about wills and trusts and +estates, and not another blessed thing in the world. If he’s as good +now as he was when I heard him in a case two years ago, he’s terrible. +I can’t wait to hear him.” + +The red-headed girl looked pale. “Oh, then, why did she get him?” + +“Ah, thereby hangs a tale. Mr. Lambert was a side kick of old Curtiss +Thorne—handled his estate and everything—and being a crusty old +bachelor from the age of thirty on, he idolized the Thorne children. +Sue was his pet. She still calls him Uncle Dudley, and when the split +came between Sue and her father he stuck to Sue. So I suppose that it +was fairly natural that she turned to him when this thing burst; he’s +always handled all her affairs, and he’s probably told her that he’s +the best lawyer this side of the Rocky Mountains. He believes it.” + +“How old is he?” + +“Sixty-three—plenty old enough to know better. You might take +everything that I say about these guys with a handful of salt; it’s +only fair to inform you that they are anything but popular with the +Fourth Estate. The only person that talks less in this world than +Dudley Lambert is Daniel Farr; either of them would make a closed +steel trap seem like a chatterbox. Stephen Bellamy’s counsel is +Lambert’s junior partner and under both his thumbs; he’d be a nice +chap if he didn’t have lockjaw.” + +“Don’t they tell you anything at all?” inquired the red-headed girl +sympathetically. + +“They tell us that there’s been a murder,” replied the reporter +gloomily. “And I’m telling you that it’s the only murder that ever +took place in the United States of America where the press has been +treated like an orphan child by everyone that knows one earthly thing +about it. Not one word of the hearing before the grand jury has leaked +out to anyone; we haven’t been given the name of one witness, and +whatever the state’s case against Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives may +be, it’s a carefully guarded secret between Mr. Daniel Farr and Mr. +Daniel Farr. The defense is just as expansive. So don’t believe all +you hear from me. I’d boil the lot of ’em in oil. Here comes Ben +Potts. To be continued in our next.” + +The red-headed girl wasn’t listening to him; she was watching the dark +figure of the prosecutor, moving leisurely forward toward the little +space where twelve men were seating themselves quietly and +unostentatiously in their stiff, uncomfortable chairs. Twelve +men—twelve everyday, ordinary, average men—— She drew a sharp breath +and turned her face away for a minute. The curtain was going up. + +“May it please Your Honour”—the prosecutor’s voice was very low, but +as penetrating as though he were a hand-breadth away—“may it please +Your Honour and gentlemen of the jury: On the night of the nineteenth +of June, 1926, a little less than four months ago, a singularly cruel +and ruthless murder took place not ten miles from the spot in which we +have met to try the two who are accused of perpetrating it. On that +summer night, which was made for youth and love and beauty, a girl who +was young and beautiful and most desperately in love came out through +the starlight to meet her lover. She had no right to meet him. She was +another man’s wife, he was another woman’s husband. But love had made +her reckless, and she came, with a black cloak flung over her white +lace dress, and silver slippers that were made for dancing on feet +that were made to dance—and that had danced for the last time. She was +bound for the gardener’s cottage on one of the largest and oldest +estates in the neighbourhood, known as Orchards. At the time of the +murder, it was not occupied, and the house was for sale. She was +hurrying, because she feared that she was late and that her lover +might be waiting. But it was not love that waited for her in the +little sitting room of the gardener’s cottage. + +“If you men who sit here in judgment of her murderers think harshly of +that pretty, flushed, enchanted girl hurrying through the night to her +tryst, remember that that tryst was with death, not with love, and be +gentle with her, even in your thoughts. She has paid more dearly for +the crime of loving not wisely but too well than many of her righteous +sisters. + +“Next morning, at about nine o’clock, Mr. Herbert Conroy, a +real-estate agent, arrived at the gardener’s cottage with a +prospective client for the estate who wished to inspect the property. +As he came up on the little porch he was surprised to see that the +front door was slightly ajar, and thinking that sneak thieves might +have broken in, he pushed it farther open and went in. + +“The first floor at the right of the narrow hall was the sitting +room—what was known by the people who had formerly used it as the +front parlour. Mr. Conroy stepped across its threshold, and his eyes +fell on a truly appalling sight. Stretched out on the floor before him +was a young woman in a white lace evening gown. A table was overturned +beside her. Either there had been a struggle or the table had been +upset as she fell. At her feet were the fragments of a shattered lamp +chimney and china shade and a brass lamp. + +“The girl’s white frock was stained with blood from throat to hem; her +silk stockings were clotted with it; even her silver slippers were +ruinously stained. She was known to have been wearing a string of +pearls, her wedding ring, and three sapphire-and-diamond rings when +she left home. These jewels were missing. The girl on the floor—the +girl who had been wilfully and cruelly stabbed to death—the girl whose +pretty frock had been turned into a ghastly mockery, was Madeleine +Bellamy, of whose murder the two defendants before you are jointly +accused. + +“The man on trial is Stephen Bellamy the husband of the murdered girl. +The woman who sits beside him is Susan Ives, the wife of Patrick Ives, +who was the lover of Madeleine Bellamy and to whom she was going on +that ill-starred night in June. + +“Murder, gentlemen, is an ugly and repellent thing; but this murder, I +think that you will agree, is a peculiarly ugly and repellent one. It +is repellent because it is the State’s contention that it was +committed by a woman of birth, breeding, and refinement, to whose +every instinct the very thought should have been abhorrent—because +this lady was driven to this crime by a motive singularly +sordid—because at her side stood a devoted husband, changed by +jealousy to a beast to whom the death of his wife had become more +precious than her life. It is peculiarly repellent because we propose +to show that these two, with her blood still on their hands, were +cool, collected, and deliberate enough to remove the jewels that she +wore from her dead body in order to make this murder seem to involve +robbery as a motive. + +“In order to be able fully to grasp the significance of the evidence +that we propose to present to you, it is necessary that you should +know something of the background against which these actors played +their tragic parts. As briefly as possible, then, I will sketch it for +you. + +“Bellechester County—your county, gentlemen, and thank God, my +county—contains as many beautiful homes and delightful communities as +any county in this state—or in any other state, for that matter—and no +more delightful one exists than that of Rosemont, a small village +about ten miles south of this courthouse. The village itself is a +flourishing little place, but the real centre of attraction is the +country club, about two miles from the village limits. About this +centre cluster some charming homes, and in one of the most charming of +them, a low, rambling, remodelled farmhouse, lived Patrick Ives and +his wife. Patrick Ives is a man of about thirty-two who has made a +surprising place for himself as a partner in one of the most +conservative and successful investment banking houses in New York. I +say surprising advisedly, for everyone was greatly surprised when +about seven years ago he married Susan Thorne and settled down to +serious work for the first time in his life. Up till that time, with +the exception of two years at the front establishing a brilliant war +record, he seems to have spent most of his time perfecting his golf +game and his fox-trotting abilities and devoting the small portion of +time that remained at his disposal to an anæmic real-estate business. +According to all reports, he was—and is—likable, charming and +immensely popular.” + +“Just one moment, Mr. Farr,” Judge Carver’s deep tones cut abruptly +across the prosecutor’s clear, urgent voice. “Do you propose to prove +all these statements?” + +“Certainly, Your Honour.” + +“I do not wish in any way to hamper you, but some of this seems a +little far afield.” + +“I can assure Your Honour that the State proposes to connect all these +facts with its case.” + +“Very well, you may proceed.” + +“At the time of the murder Mr. Ives’s household consisted of his wife, +Susan Thorne Ives; his two children, Peter and Polly, aged five and +six; his mother, Mrs. Daniel Ives, to whom he has always been an +unusually devoted son; a nursery governess, Miss Kathleen Page; and +some six or seven servants. The only member of the household who +concerns us immediately is Susan, or, as she is known to her friends, +Sue Ives. + +“Mrs. Ives is a most unusual woman. The youngest child and only +daughter of the immensely wealthy Curtiss Thorne, she grew up on the +old Thorne estate, Orchards, the idol of her father and her two +brothers. Her mother died shortly after she was born. There was no +luxury, no indulgence to which she was not accustomed from her +earliest childhood. She was brilliantly intellectual and excelled at +every type of athletics. Society, apparently, interested her very +little; but there was not a trophy that she did not promptly capture +at either golf or tennis. She was not particularly attractive to men, +according to local gossip, in spite of being witty, accomplished, and +charming—perhaps she was too witty and too accomplished for their +peace of mind. At any rate, she set the entire community by the ears +about seven years ago by running off with the handsome and impecunious +Patrick Ives, just back from the war. + +“Old Curtiss Thorne, who detested Patrick Ives and had other plans for +her, cut her off without a cent—and died two years later without a +cent himself, ruined by the collapse of his business during the +deflation of 1921. Just what happened to Patrick and Susan Ives during +the three years after the elopement, no one knows. They disappeared +into the maelstrom of New York. Mrs. Daniel Ives joined them, and +somehow they must have managed to keep from starving to death. Two +children were born to Susan Ives, and finally Patrick persuaded this +investment house to try him out as a bond salesman. It developed that +he had a positive genius for the business, and his rise has been +spectacular in the extreme. He is considered to-day one of the most +promising young men in the Street. + +“At the end of four years, the Iveses and their babies returned to +Rosemont. They bought an old farmhouse with some seven or eight acres +about a mile from the club, remodelled it, landscaped it, put in a +tennis court, and became the most sought-after young couple in +Rosemont. On the surface, they seemed ideally happy. Two charming +children, a charming home, plenty of money, congenial enough +tastes—such things should go far to create a paradise, shouldn’t they? +Well, down this smooth, easy, flower-strewn, and garlanded path +Patrick and Susan Ives were hurrying straight toward hell. In order to +understand why this was true, you must know something of two other +people and their lives. + +“About a mile and a half from the Ives house was another farmhouse, on +the outskirts of the village, but this one had not been remodelled. It +was small, shabby, in poor repair—no tennis court, no gardens, a cheap +portable garage, a meagre half acre of land inadequately surrounded by +a rickety fence. Everything is comparative in this world. To the +dwellers in tenements and slums, that house would have been a little +palace. To the dweller in the stone palaces that line the Hudson, it +would be a slum. To Madeleine Bellamy, whose home it was, it was +undoubtedly a constant humiliation and irritation. + +“Mimi Bellamy—in all likelihood no one in Rosemont had heard her +called Madeleine since the day that she was christened—Mimi Bellamy +was an amazingly beautiful creature. ‘Beauty’ is a much cheapened and +battered word; in murder trials it is loosely applied to either the +victim or the murderess if either of them happened to be under fifty +and not actually deformed. I am not referring to that type of beauty. +Mimi Bellamy’s beauty was of the type that in Trojan days launched a +thousand ships and in these days launches a musical comedy. Hers was +beauty that is a disastrous gift—not the common-place prettiness of a +small-town belle, though such, it seems, was the rôle in which fate +had cast her. + +“I am showing you her picture, cut from the local paper—crudely taken, +crudely printed, many times enlarged, yet even all these factors +cannot dim her radiance. It was taken shortly before she died—not two +months before, as a matter of fact. It cannot give the flowerlike +beauty of her colouring, the red-gold hair, the sea-blue eyes, the +exquisite flush of exultant youth that played about her like an +enchantment; but perhaps even this cold, black-and-white shadow of a +laughing girl in a flowered frock will give you enough of a suggestion +of her warm enchantment to make the incredible disaster that resulted +from that enchantment more credible. It is for that purpose that I am +showing it to you now, and to remind you, if you feel pity for another +woman, that never more again in all this world will that girl’s +laughter be heard, young and careless and joyous. I ask you most +solemnly to remember that. + +“Mimi Dawson Bellamy was the daughter of the village dressmaker, who +had married Frederick Dawson, a man considerably above her socially, +as he was a moderately successful real-estate broker in the village of +Rosemont. He was by no manner of means a member of the local smart +set, however, and was not even a member of the country club. They +lived in a comfortable, unpretentious house a little off the main +street, and in the boarding house next to them lived Mrs. Daniel Ives +and her son Patrick. + +“Mrs. Ives, a widow, was very highly regarded in the village, to which +she had come many years previously, and was extremely industrious in +her efforts to supplement their meagre income. She gave music lessons, +did mending, looked after small children whose mothers were at the +movies, and did everything in her power to assist her son, whose +principal contribution to their welfare up to the time that he was +twenty-one seemed to be a genuine devotion to his mother. At that age +Mr. Dawson took him in to work with him in the real-estate business, +hoping that his charm and engaging manners would make up for his lack +of experience and industry. To a certain extent they did, but they +created considerably more havoc with Mr. Dawson’s beautiful daughter +than they did with his clients. A boy-and-girl affair immediately +sprang up between these two—the exquisite, precocious child of +seventeen and the handsome boy of twenty-two were seen everywhere +together, and it was a thoroughly understood thing that Mimi Dawson +and Pat Ives were going together, and that one of these days they +would go as far as the altar. + +“A year later war was declared. Patrick Ives enlisted at once, and was +among the first to reach France. The whole village believed that if he +came back alive he would marry Mimi. But they were counting without +Mimi. + +“War, gentlemen, changed more things than the map of Europe. It +changed the entire social map in many an American community; it +changed, drastically and surprisingly, the social map of the community +of Rosemont in the county of Bellechester. For the first time since +the country club was built and many of the residents of New York +discovered that it was possible to live in the country and work in +the city, the barrier between the villagers and the country club +members was lowered, and over this lowered barrier stepped Mimi +Dawson, straight into the charmed sewing circles, knitting circles, +Red Cross circles, bandage-making circles that had sprung up +over-night—straight, moreover, into the charmed circle of society, +about whose edges she had wistfully hovered—and straight, moreover, +into the life of Elliot Farwell. + +“Elliot Farwell was the younger brother of Mrs. George Dallas, at +whose house met the Red Cross Circle of which Mrs. Dallas was +president. Many of the village girls were asked to join her class in +bandage making—after all, we were fighting this war to make the world +safe for democracy, so why not be democratic? A pair of hands from the +village was just as good as a pair of hands from the club—possibly +better. So little Mimi Dawson found herself sitting next to the great +Miss Thorne, wrapping wisps of cotton about bits of wood and going +home to the village with rapidly increasing regularity in Mr. Elliot +Farwell’s new automobile, quite without the knowledge or sanction of +Mr. Farwell’s sister, whose democracy might not have stood the strain. + +“Elliot Farwell was one of the two or three young men left in +Rosemont. His eyes made it impossible for him to get into any branch +of the service, so he remained peaceably at home, attending to a +somewhat perfunctory business in the city as a promoter. He would have +had to be blind enough to require the services of a dog and a tin cup +not to have noted Mimi Dawson’s beauty, however; as a matter of fact, +he noted it so intently that three months after peace was declared and +three weeks before Patrick Ives returned from the war, Mr. and Mrs. +Frederick Dawson announced the engagement of their daughter Madeleine +to Mr. Elliot Farwell—and a startled world. Not the least startled +member of this world, possibly, was Susan Thorne, to whom young +Farwell had been moderately attentive for several years. + +“Such was the state of affairs when the tide of exodus to Europe +turned, and back on the very crest of the incoming waves rode Major +Patrick Ives, booted, spurred, belted, and decorated—straight over the +still-lowered barrier into the very heart of the country-club set. He +was, not unnaturally, charmed with his surroundings, and apparently +the fact that he found Mimi Dawson already installed there with a +fiancé did not dampen his spirits in the slightest. From the day that +he first went around the golf course with Susan Thorne, he was as +invariably at her side as her shadow. Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s open and +violent disapproval left them unchastened and inseparable. Apparently +they found the world well lost, as did Farwell and his fiancée. And +into the midst of this idyllic scene, a month or so later, wanders the +last of our actors, Stephen Bellamy. + +“Stephen Bellamy was older than these others—seven years older than +Susan Thorne or Patrick Ives, twelve years older than the radiant +Mimi. He was the best friend of Susan’s elder brother Douglas, and a +junior partner of Curtiss Thorne. He had done well in the war, as he +had in his business, and he was generally supposed to be the best +masculine catch in Rosemont—intelligent, distinguished, and thoroughly +substantial. It was everybody’s secret that Curtiss Thorne wanted him +for his son-in-law, and he and Elliot Farwell were the nearest +approaches to beaus that Susan Thorne had had before the war. + +“Within a week of their respective returns, she had lost both of them. +The sober, reserved, conservative Stephen Bellamy fell even more +violently and abjectly a victim to Mimi Dawson’s charms than had +Elliot Farwell. The fact that she was engaged to another man who had +been at least a pleasant acquaintance of his did not seem to deter Mr. +Bellamy for a second. At any rate, the third week in June in 1919 +brought three shocks to the conservative community of Rosemont that +left it rocking for many moons to come. On Monday, after a violent and +public quarrel with Farwell, Mimi Dawson broke her engagement to him; +on Wednesday Sue Thorne eloped with Patrick Ives, and on Thursday Miss +Dawson and Mr. Bellamy were married by the justice of the peace in +this very courthouse. + +“It is a long stride from that amazing week in June to another June, +but I ask you to make it with me. In the seven years that have passed, +the seeds that were sown in those far-off days—seeds of discord, of +heartbreak, of envy and malice—have waxed and grown into a mighty +vine, heavy with bitter fruit; and the day of harvest is at hand—and +the hands of the harvesters shall be red. But on this peaceful sunny +summer afternoon of the nineteenth of June, 1926, those who are +sitting in the vine’s shadow seem to find it a tranquil and a pleasant +place. + +“It is five o’clock at the Rosemont Country Club, and the people that +I have brought before you in the brief time at my disposal are +gathered on the lawn in front of the club; the golfers are just coming +in; it is the prettiest and gayest hour of the day. Mimi Bellamy is +there, waiting for her husband. She has driven over in their little +car to take him home for supper; it is parked just now beside Sue +Ives’s sleek and shining car with its sleek and shining chauffeur, and +possibly Mimi Bellamy is wondering what strange fate makes one man a +failure in the world of business and another a success. For the +industrious and intelligent Stephen Bellamy has never recovered from +the setback that he received when Curtiss Thorne’s business crashed; +he is still struggling valiantly to keep a roof over his wife’s +enchanting head—he can do little more. True, they have a maid of all +work and a man of all work; but Sue Ives, who married the village +ne’er-do-well, has eight servants and three cars and the prettiest +gardens in Rosemont. So does fate make fools of the shrewdest of us! + +“Gathered about in little groups are the George Dallases, Elliot +Farwell, and Richard Burgoyne, the man with whom he keeps bachelor +hall in a small bungalow near the village; the Ned Conroys and Sue +Ives, whose husband has been cheated out of golf by a business +engagement in the city, in spite of the fact that it is Saturday +afternoon. She has, however, found another cavalier. Seated on the +club steps, a little apart from the others, she is deep in +conversation with Elliot Farwell, who is consuming his third highball +in rapid succession. Gentlemen, if I could let you eavesdrop on the +seemingly casual and actually momentous discussion that is going on +behind those amiable masks, much that is dark to you now would be +clear as day. I ask your patient and intelligent interest until that +moment arrives. It will arrive, I promise you. + +“For here, on this sunlit lawn, I propose to leave them for the +present. Others will tell you what happened from that sunlit moment +until the dark and dreadful one in the gardener’s little cottage, when +a knife rose and fell. I have not gone thus exhaustively into the +shadowy past from which these figures sprang in order to retail to you +the careless chatter of a country club and a country village. I have +gone into it because I have felt it entirely imperative that you +should know the essential facts in the light of which you will be able +to read more clearly the evidence that I am about to submit to you. It +is inevitable that each one of you must say to himself as you sit +there: ‘How is it possible that this young woman seated before our +eyes, charming, well bred, sheltered, controlled, intelligent—how is +it possible that this woman can have wilfully, brutally, and +deliberately murdered another woman? How is it possible that the man +seated beside her, a gentleman born and bred, irreproachable in every +phase of his past life, can have aided and abetted her in her +project?’ + +“How are these things possible, you ask? Gentleman, I say to you that +we expect to prove that these things are not possible—we expect to +prove that these things are certain. I am speaking neither rashly nor +lightly when I assure you that the state believes that it can +demonstrate their certainty beyond the shadow of a possible doubt. I +am not seeking a conviction; I am no bloodhound baying for a victim. +If you can find it in your hearts when I have done with this case to +hold these two guiltless, you will, indeed, be fortunate—and I can +find in my heart no desire to deprive you of that good fortune. It is +my most painful duty, however, to place the facts before you and to +let them speak for themselves. + +“I ask you, gentlemen, to bear these things in mind. Susan Ives is a +woman accustomed to luxury and security; she has once before been +roughly deprived of it. What dreadful scars those three years in New +York left on the gallant and spirited girl who went so recklessly to +face them we can only surmise. But perhaps it is sufficient to say +that the scars seared so deep that they sealed her lips forever. I +have not been able to discover that she has mentioned them to one +solitary soul, and I have questioned many. She was threatened with a +hideous repetition of this nightmare. Her religious principles, as you +will learn, prevented her from ever accepting or seeking a divorce, +and she was too intelligent not to be fully aware that if Patrick Ives +ran away with Mimi Bellamy, he would inevitably have lost his position +in the ultra-conservative house in which he was a partner, and thus be +absolutely precluded from providing for her or her children, even if +he had so desired. + +“The position of a young woman thrown entirely on her own resources, +with two small children on her hands, is a desperate one, and it is +our contention that Susan Ives turned to desperate remedies. Added to +this terror was what must have been a truly appalling hatred for the +girl who was about to turn her sunny and sheltered existence into a +nightmare. Cupidity, love, revenge—every murder in this world that is +not the result of a drunken blow springs from one of these motives. +Gentlemen, the state contends that Susan Ives was moved by all three. + +“As for Stephen Bellamy, his idolatry of his young and beautiful wife +was his life—a drab and colourless life save for the light and colour +that she brought to it. When he discovered that she had turned that +idolatry to mockery, madness descended on him—the madness that sent +Othello staggering to his wife’s bed with death in his hands; the +madness that has caused that wretched catch phrase ‘the unwritten law’ +to become almost as potent as our written code—to our shame, be it +said. Do not be deceived by the memory of that phrase, gentlemen. +There was another law, written centuries ago in letters of flame on +the peaks of a mountain—‘Thou shalt not kill.’ Remember that law +written in flame and forget the one that has been traced only in the +blood of its victims. These two before you stand accused of breaking +that law, written on Sinai—that sacred law on which hangs all the +security of the society that we have so laboriously wrought out of +chaos and horror—and we are now about to show you why they are thus +accused. + +“From the first step that each took toward the dark way that was to +lead them to the room in the gardener’s cottage, we will trace them—to +its very threshold—across its threshold. There I will leave them, my +duty will have been done. Yours, gentlemen, will be yet to do, and I +am entirely convinced that, however painful, however hateful, however +dreadful, it may seem to you, you will not shrink from performing that +duty.” + +The compelling voice with its curious ring fell abruptly to silence—a +silence that lingered, deepened, and then abruptly broke into +irrepressible and incautious clamour. + +“Silence! Silence!” + +Ben Potts’s voice and Judge Carver’s gavel thundered down the voices. + +“Once and for all, this courtroom is not a place for conversation. +Kindly remain silent while you are in it. Court is dismissed for the +day. It will convene again at ten to-morrow.” + +The red-headed girl dragged stiffly to her feet. The first day of the +Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER II + +The red-headed girl was late. The clock over the courtroom door said +three minutes past ten. She flung herself, breathless, into the seat +next to the lanky young man and inquired in a tragic whisper, “Have +they started?” + +“Nope,” replied that imperturbable individual. “Calm yourself. You +haven’t missed a single hear ye. Your hat’s a good deal over one eye.” + +“I ran all the way from the station,” gasped the red-headed girl. +“Every step. There’s not a taxi in this whole abominable place. And +you were gone last night before I had a chance to ask you what you +thought of the prosecutor’s speech.” + +“Perhaps that’s why I went.” + +“No, truly, what did you think of it?” + +“Well, I think that boys being boys, jurors being jurors, prosecutors +being prosecutors, and Mrs. Patrick Ives being Mrs. Patrick Ives, he +did about as well as could be expected—better than I expected.” + +“He can’t prove all those things, can he?” asked the red-headed girl, +looking a little pale. + +“Ah, that’s it! When you get right down to it, the only things of any +importance that he claimed he was going to prove were in one last +sentence: That Bellamy and Sue Ives met and went to the front parlour +of the gardener’s cottage, to confront Mimi Bellamy—that’s his case. +And a pretty good case, too, if you ask me. The rest of it was just a +lot of good fancy, expansive words strung together in order to create +pity, horror, prejudice, and suspicion in the eyes of the jury. And +granted that purpose, they weren’t bad words, though there were a few +bits that absolutely yelled for ‘Hearts and Flowers’ on muted strings +somewhere in the background—that little piece about going through the +starlight to her lover. . . .” + +“I thought the idea was that the prosecutor was after truth, not a +conviction,” said the red-headed girl gravely. + +“The ideal, not the idea, my child. You didn’t precisely get the +notion that he was urging the jury to consider that, though there was +a pretty strong case against Mrs. Ives and Stephen Bellamy, there were +a whole lot of other people who might have done it too—or did you?” + +“He certainly said most distinctly that he wasn’t any bloodhound +baying for a victim.” + +“Well, if he isn’t, I’ll bet that he gives such a good imitation of +one that if Eliza should happen to hear him while she was crossing the +ice she’d take two cakes at one jump. What did I tell you about Mr. +Farr and the classics? Did you get ‘she loved not wisely but too +well’? That beats ‘I could not not love thee, dear, so much.’” + +Ben Potts’s high, clear voice pulled them abruptly to their feet. “The +Court!” + +Through the little door behind the dais came the tall figure of Judge +Carver, his spacious silks folding him in dignity—rather a splendid +figure. The jury, the counsel, the defendants—Mrs. Ives was wearing +the same hat . . . + +“Hear ye! Hear ye! Hear ye! All those having business before this +honourable court draw near, give your attention, and you shall be +heard!” + +The clear singsong was drowned in the rustle of those in the courtroom +sinking back into their seats. + +“Is Mr. Conroy in court?” + +“Mr. Herbert Conroy!” intoned the crier. + +All heads turned to watch the small spare figure hurrying down the +aisle toward the witness box. + +“You do solemnly swear that the testimony that you shall give to the +court and jury in this case now on trial shall be truth, the whole +truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?” + +“I do.” + +Mr. Conroy’s faded blue eyes darted about him quietly as he mounted +the stand, as though he were looking for a way out. + +“Mr. Conroy, what is your profession?” + +“I am a real-estate broker.” + +“Is your office in Rosemont?” + +“No, sir; my office is in New York. My home, however, is in Brierdale, +about three miles north of Rosemont.” + +“Have you the agency of the Thorne property, Orchards?” + +“I have.” + +“To whom does that property belong?” + +“It was left by Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s will to his two sons, Charles and +Douglas. Charles was killed in the war, and it therefore reverted to +the elder son, Douglas. He is now the sole owner.” + +“And he placed it with you to sell?” + +“To sell or to rent—preferably to sell.” + +“Have you had offers for it?” + +“None that we regarded as satisfactory; it was too large a property to +appeal to the average man in the market for a country home, as it +consisted of more than eighty acres and a house of twenty-four rooms. +On the afternoon of the nineteenth of June, 1926, however, I showed +the photographs of the house to a gentleman from Cleveland who was +about to transfer his business to the East. He was delighted with them +and made no quibble about the price if the property proved to be all +that it seemed.” + +“You were in New York at this time?” + +“Yes; and a dinner engagement there prevented me from taking him out +to Rosemont that afternoon. He was extremely anxious, however, to see +it as soon as possible, as he was leaving for the West the following +afternoon. So I arranged to take him next morning at nine o’clock.” + +“And did so?” + +“And did so.” + +“Now will you be good enough to tell us, Mr. Conroy, just what +happened when you arrived with this gentleman at Orchards on the +morning of the twentieth?” + +“We drove out from New York in my roadster, arriving at the lodge +gates of the property shortly after nine o’clock, I should say. I was +to collect the keys under the doormat at the gardener’s cottage, which +was halfway between the lodge and the main house——” + +“Just a moment, Mr. Conroy. Was the lodge occupied?” + +“No; at this particular time no building on the place was occupied. In +Mr. Curtiss Thorne’s day, the lodge was occupied by the chauffeur and +his family, the gardener’s cottage by the gardener and his family, and +there was another cottage used by a farmer on the extreme western +boundary. None of these had been occupied for some time, with the +exception of the gardener’s cottage, whose occupants had been given a +vacation of two months in order to visit their aged parents in Italy. +Shall I go on?” + +“Please.” + +“The gardener’s cottage is a low five-room building at a bend of the +road, and is practically concealed as you approach it from the main +driveway by the very high shrubbery that surrounds it—lilacs, syringa, +and the like. There is a little drive that shoots off from the main +driveway and circles the cottage, and we drove in there, to the front +of the house, and mounted the steps to the front porch, as my client +wished to see the interior. Just as I bent down to secure the keys, I +was surprised to see that the door was slightly ajar. I picked up the +keys, pushed it farther open, and went in, rather expecting that sneak +thieves might have preceded me.” + +Mr. Conroy paused for a moment in his steady, precise narrative, his +pale face a little paler. “Shall I continue?” + +“Certainly.” + +“On my left was the dining room, with the door closed; on my right, +the room known as the parlour. The door was open, but only a small +section of the room was visible from the corridor, and it was not +until I had crossed the threshold that I realized that something +frightful had occurred. In the corner of the room farthest from the +door——” + +“Just a minute, please. Was your client with you when you entered the +room?” + +“He was a step or so behind me, I believe. In the corner of the room +was the—the body of a young woman in a white frock. A small table was +overturned beside her, and at her feet was a lamp, the chimney and +shade shattered and some oil spilled on the floor. The smell of the +kerosene was very strong—very strong indeed.” + +Mr. Conroy looked a little ill, as though the odour of that spilled +kerosene were still about him. + +“Was the girl’s head toward you, or her feet, Mr. Conroy?” + +“Her feet. Her head was resting on the corner of a low fender—a +species of steel railing—that circled the base of a Franklin stove.” + +“Did you notice anything else?” + +“Yes; I noticed that there was blood.” He glanced about him swiftly, +as though he were startled by the sound of the word, and lowered his +voice. “A great deal of blood.” + +“On the dress?” + +“Principally on the dress. I believe that there was also a little on +the carpet, though I could not be sure of that. But principally it was +on the dress.” + +“Can you tell us about the dress?” + +Again Mr. Conroy’s haunted eyes went wandering. “The dress? It was +soaked in blood, sir—I think I may say that it was soaked in blood.” + +“No, no—I mean what kind of a dress was it? An evening dress?” + +“Well, I hardly know. I suppose you might call it that. Not a ball +gown, you understand—just a thin lacy dress, with the neck cut out a +little and short sleeves. I remember that quite well—the lady’s arms +were bare.” + +The prosecutor, who had been carelessly fingering some papers and +pamphlets on the top of a small square box, brushed them impatiently +aside and scooped something else out of its depths. + +“Was this the dress, Mr. Conroy?” + +The long screech of Mr. Conroy’s chair as he shoved it violently back +tore through the courtroom like something human, echoing through every +heart. The prosecutor was nonchalantly dangling before the broker’s +staring eyes a crumpled object—a white dress, streaked and splotched +and dotted with that most ominous colour known to the eyes of man—the +curious rusted sinister red of dried blood. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Conroy, his voice barely above a whisper—“yes, yes; +that is it—that is the dress.” + +The fascinated eyes of the spectators wrenched themselves from the +dress to the two defendants. Susan Ives was not looking at it. Her +head was as high as ever, her lips as steady, but her eyes were bent +intently on a scrap of paper that she held in her gloved fingers. +Apparently Mrs. Ives was deeply interested in the contents. + +Stephen Bellamy was not reading. He sat watching that handful of lace +and blood as though it were Medusa’s head, his blank, unswerving eyes +riveted to it by something inexorable and intolerable. His face was as +quiet as Susan Ives’s, save for a dreadful little ripple of muscles +about the set mouth—the ripple that comes from clenched teeth, +clenched harder, harder—harder still, lest there escape through them +some sound not meant for decent human ears. Save for that ripple, he +did not move a hairbreadth. + +“Was the blood on this dress dry when you first saw it, Mr. Conroy?” + +“No, it was not dry.” + +“You ascertained that by touching it?” + +Mr. Conroy’s small neat body seemed to contract farther into itself. + +“No, I did not touch it. It was not necessary to touch it to see that. +It—it was quite apparent.” + +“I see. Your Honour, I ask to have this dress marked for +identification.” + +“It may be marked,” said Judge Carver quietly, eyeing it steadily and +gravely for a moment before he returned to his notes. + +“Got that?” inquired Mr. Farr briskly, handing it over to the clerk of +the court. “I offer it in evidence.” + +“Are there any objections?” inquired Judge Carver. + +“Your Honour, I fail to see what necessity there is for——” + +The judge cut sharply across Lambert’s voice: “You are not required to +be the arbiter of that, Mr. Lambert. The state is conducting its case +without your assistance, to the best of my knowledge. Do you object, +and if so, on what grounds?” + +Mr. Lambert’s ruddy countenance became a shade more ruddy. He opened +his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it with an audible snap. +“No objection.” + +“Mr. Conroy, did you notice whether the slippers were stained?” + +“Yes—yes, they were considerably stained.” + +“What type of slippers were they?” + +“They were shiny slippers, with very high heels and some kind of +bright, sparkling little buckles, I believe.” + +“Like these?” Once more the resourceful Mr. Farr had delved into the +square box, and he placed the result of his research deftly on the +edge of the witness box. A pair of silver slippers with rhinestone +buckles, exquisite and inadequate enough for the most foolish of +women, small enough for a man to hold in one outstretched +hand—sparkling, absurd, and coquettish, they perched on that dark rim, +the buckles gleaming valiantly above the dark and sinister splotches +that turned them from gay and charming toys to tokens of horror. + +“Those are the slippers,” said Mr. Conroy, his shaken voice barely +audible. + +“I offer them in evidence.” + +“No objections.” Mr. Lambert’s voice was an objection in itself. + +“Now, Mr. Conroy, will you be good enough to tell us what you did as +soon as you made this discovery?” + +“I said to my client, ‘There has been foul play here. We must get the +police.’” + +“No, not what you said, Mr. Conroy—what you did.” + +“I returned to my roadster with my client, locking the front door +behind me with a key from the ring that I had found under the doormat, +and drove as rapidly as possible to police headquarters in Rosemont, +reporting what I had discovered.” + +“Just what did you report?” + +“I reported that I had found the body of Mrs. Stephen Bellamy in the +gardener’s cottage of the old Thorne place, and that it looked as +though she had been murdered.” + +“Oh, you recognized Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“Yes. She was a friend of my sister-in-law, who lives in Rosemont. I +had met her on two occasions.” + +“And what did you do then?” + +“I considered that the matter was then out of my hands, but I +endeavoured to reach Mr. Douglas Thorne by telephone, to tell him what +had occurred. I was not successful, however, and returned immediately +to New York with my client.” + +“He decided not to inspect the place farther?” + +For the first time Mr. Conroy permitted himself a small, pallid, +apologetic ghost of a smile. “Exactly. He decided that under the +circumstances he did not desire to go farther with the transaction. It +did not seem to him, if I may so express it, a particularly auspicious +omen.” + +“Well, that’s quite comprehensible. Did you notice when you were in +this parlour whether Mrs. Bellamy was wearing any jewellery, Mr. +Conroy?” + +“To the best of my recollection, she was not, sir.” + +“You are quite sure of that?” + +“I am not able to swear to it, but it is my distinct impression that +she was not. I was only in the room a minute or so, you understand, +but I still retain a most vivid picture of it—a most vivid picture, I +may say.” + +Mr. Conroy passed a weary hand over his high brow, and that vivid +picture seemed suddenly to float before the eyes of every occupant of +the court. + +“You did not see a weapon?” + +“No. I could not swear that one was not there, but certainly I did not +see one.” + +“I understood you to say that you locked the front door of the +gardener’s cottage with one of the keys that you found on the ring +under the mat. How many keys were on that ring?” + +“Seven or eight, I think—a key to the lodge, to the garage opposite +the lodge, to the gardener’s cottage, to the farmer’s house, to the +front and back doors of the main house, and to the cellar—possibly +others.” + +“Didn’t it ever strike you as a trifle imprudent to keep these keys in +such an unprotected spot, Mr. Conroy?” + +“We did not consider it an unprotected spot, sir. The gardener’s +cottage was a long way from the road, and it did not seem at all +likely that they would be discovered.” + +“Whom do you mean by ‘we,’ Mr. Conroy?” + +Mr. Conroy made a small restless movement. “I was referring to Mr. +Douglas Thorne and myself.” + +“Oh, Mr. Thorne knew that the keys were kept there, did he?” + +“Oh, quite so—naturally.” + +“Why ‘naturally,’ Mr. Conroy?” + +“I said naturally—I said naturally because Mr. Thorne had placed them +there himself.” + +“Oh, I see. And when had Mr. Thorne placed them there?” + +“He had placed them there on the previous evening.” + +“On the previous evening?” Even the prosecutor’s voice sounded +startled. + +“Yes.” + +“At what time?” + +“I am not sure of the exact time.” + +“Well, can you tell us approximately?” + +“I am not able to state positively even the approximate time.” + +“Was it before seven in the evening?” + +“I do not believe so.” + +“How did you acquire the knowledge that Mr. Thorne was to leave those +keys at the cottage, Mr. Conroy?” + +“By telephone.” + +“Mr. Thorne telephoned you?” + +“No, I telephoned Mr. Thorne.” + +“At what time?” + +“At about half-past six on the evening of the nineteenth.” + +“I see. Will you be good enough to give us the gist of what you said +to him over the telephone?” + +“I had been trying to reach Mr. Thorne for some time, both at his home +in Lakedale and in town.” + +“Mr. Thorne does not live in Rosemont?” + +“No; he lives the other side of Lakedale, which is about twelve miles +nearer New York. When I finally reached him, after his return from a +golf match, I explained to him the urgency of getting into the house +as early as possible the following morning and suggested that he might +drive over after dinner and leave the keys under the mat of the +cottage. I apologized to Mr. Thorne for causing him so much trouble, +and he remarked that it was no trouble at all, as——” + +“No, not what he remarked, Mr. Conroy—only what you said.” + +“I do not remember that I said anything further of any importance.” + +“Do you know at what time Mr. Thorne is in the habit of dining, Mr. +Conroy?” + +“I do not, sir.” + +“How long should you say that it would take to drive from Mr. Thorne’s +home to Orchards?” + +“It is, roughly, about fourteen miles. I should imagine that it would +depend entirely on the rate at which you drove.” + +“Driving at an ordinary rate, some thirty-five to forty minutes, +should you say?” + +“Possibly.” + +“So that if Mr. Thorne had finished his dinner at about eight, he +would have arrived at Orchards shortly before nine?” + +“I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Farr. You know quite as much about +that as I do.” + +Mr. Conroy’s small, harassed, unhappy face looked almost defiant for a +moment, and then wavered under the geniality of the prosecutor’s +infrequent smile. + +“I believe that you are right, Mr. Conroy.” He turned abruptly toward +the court crier. “Is Mr. Douglas Thorne in court?” + +“Mr. Douglas Thorne!” intoned the crier in his high, pleasant +falsetto. + +A tall lean man, bronzed and distinguished, rose promptly to his feet +from his seat in the fourth row. “Here, sir.” + +“Mr. Thorne, will you be good enough to speak to me after court is +over? . . . Thanks. That will be all, Mr. Conroy. Cross-examine.” + +Mr. Lambert approached the witness box with a curious air of caution. + +“It was entirely at your suggestion that Mr. Thorne brought the keys, +was it not, Mr. Conroy?” + +“Oh, certainly—entirely.” + +“He might have left them there at eight o’clock or at even eleven +o’clock, as far as you know?” + +“Exactly.” + +“That is all, Mr. Conroy.” + +“No further questions,” said the prosecutor curtly. “Call Dr. Paul +Stanley.” + +“Dr. Paul Stanley!” + +The man who took Herbert Conroy’s place in the witness box was a +comfortable-looking individual with a fine thatch of gray hair and an +amiable and intelligent countenance, which he turned benignly on the +prosecutor. + +“What is your profession, Dr. Stanley?” + +“I am a surgeon. In my early youth I was that now fabulous creature, a +general practitioner.” + +He smiled engagingly at the prosecutor, and the crowded courtroom +relaxed. A nice, restful individual, after the haunted little +real-estate broker. + +“You have performed autopsies before, Dr. Stanley?” + +“Frequently.” + +“And in this case you performed the autopsy on the body of Madeleine +Bellamy?” + +“I did.” + +“Where did you first see the body?” + +“In the front room of the gardener’s cottage on the Thorne estate.” + +“Did you hear Mr. Conroy’s testimony?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was the body in the position in which he described it at the time +that he saw it?” + +“In exactly that position. Later, for purposes of the autopsy, it was +removed to the room opposite—the dining room.” + +“Please tell us under what circumstances you first saw the body.” + +“Certainly.” Dr. Stanley settled himself a trifle more comfortably in +his chair and turned a trifle toward the jury, who stared back +gratefully into his friendly countenance. If Dr. Stanley had been +explaining just how he reeled in the biggest trout of the season, he +could not have looked more affably at ease. “I went out to the cottage +with my friend Elias Dutton, the coroner, and two or three state +troopers. Mr. Conroy had turned over the key to the cottage to us, and +we found everything as he had described it to us.” + +“Were there signs of a struggle?” + +“You mean on the body?” + +“Yes—scratches, bruises, torn or disarranged clothing?” + +“No, there were no signs of any description of a struggle, save for +the overturned table and the lamp.” + +“Might that have happened when Mrs. Bellamy fell?” + +“The table might very readily have been overturned at that time; it +was toward Mrs. Bellamy’s head and almost on top of the body. The +lamp, on the other hand, was practically at her feet.” + +“Could it have rolled there as the table crashed?” + +“Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The fragments of lamp chimney and shade +were there, too, you see, some six feet away from the table.” + +“I see. Will you tell us now, Dr. Stanley, just what caused the death +of Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“Mrs. Bellamy’s heart was punctured by some sharp instrument—a knife, +I should say.” + +“There was only one wound?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you please describe it to us?” + +“There was a clean incision about three quarters of an inch long in +the skin just over the heart. The instrument had penetrated to a depth +of approximately three inches, and had passed between the ribs over +the heart.” + +“Was it necessary that the blow should have been delivered with great +force?” + +“Not necessarily. If the knife had struck a rib, it would have taken +considerable force to deflect it, but in this case it encountered no +obstacle whatever.” + +“So that a woman with a strong wrist could have struck the blow?” + +“Oh, certainly—or a woman with a weak wrist—or a child—or a strong +man, as far as that goes. There is no evidence at all from the wound +as to the force with which the blow was delivered.” + +“I see.” Mr. Farr reached casually over to the clerk’s desk and handed +Dr. Stanley the dreadful rag that had been Madeleine Bellamy’s white +lace dress. “Do you recognize this dress, Doctor?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Will you be good enough to indicate to us just where the knife +penetrated the fabric?” + +Dr. Stanley turned it deftly in his long-fingered, capable hands. +Something in that skilful scientific touch seemed to purge it of +horror—averted eyes travelled back to it warily. + +“The knife went through it right here. If you look closely, you can +see the severed threads—just here, where the stain is darkest.” + +“Exactly. Would such a wound have caused instantaneous death, Doctor, +in your opinion?” + +“Not instantaneous—no. Death would follow very rapidly, however.” + +“A minute or so?” + +“A few minutes—the loss of blood would be tremendous.” + +“Would the victim be likely to make much outcry—screaming, moaning, or +the like?” + +“Well, it’s a little difficult to generalize about that. In this +particular case, there is reason to doubt whether there was any outcry +after the blow was struck.” + +“What reason have you to suppose that?” + +“I think that Mr. Conroy has already testified that Mrs. Bellamy’s +head was resting on the corner of a steel fire guard—a pierced railing +about six inches high. It is my belief that, when she received the +blow, she staggered, clutched at the table, and fell, striking the +back of her head against the railing with sufficient force to render +her totally unconscious. There was a serious abrasion at the back of +the head that leads me to draw that conclusion.” + +“I see. Was Mrs. Bellamy wearing any jewellery when you saw her, +Doctor—a necklace, rings, brooches?” + +“I saw no jewellery of any kind on the body.” + +“What type of knife should you say was used to commit this murder, +Doctor?” + +“Well, that’s a little difficult to say. There were no marked +peculiarities about the wound. It might have been caused by almost any +knife with a sharp blade about three quarters of an inch wide and from +three to four inches long—a sheath knife, a small kitchen knife, a +large jackknife or clasp knife—various types, as I say.” + +“Could it have been made with this?” + +The prosecutor dropped a small dark object into the doctor’s +outstretched hand and stood aside so that the jury, galvanized to +goggle-eyed attention, could see it better. It was a knife—a large +jackknife, with a rough, corrugated bone handle. + +Mr. Lambert bore down on the scene at a subdued gallop. “Are you +offering this knife in evidence?” + +“I am not.” + +Judge Carver leaned forward, his black silk robes rustling ominously. +“What is this knife, Mr. Farr?” + +“This is a knife, Your Honour, that I propose to connect up with the +case at a somewhat later stage. At present I ask to have it marked for +identification merely for purposes of the record.” + +“You say that you will be able to connect it?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Very well, you may answer the question, Dr. Stanley.” + +The doctor was inspecting it gravely, his eyes bright with interest. + +“I may open it?” + +“Please do.” + +In the breathless stillness the little click as the large blade sprang +back was clearly audible. Dr. Stanley bent over it attentively, passed +a forefinger reflectively along its shining surface, raised his head. +“Yes, it could quite easily have been done with this.” + +The prosecutor snapped the blade to with an enigmatic smile. “Thank +you. That will be all.” + +“Miss Kathleen Page!” + +Before the ring of that high imperious summons had died in the air, +she was there—a demure and dainty wraith, all in gray from the close +feathered hat to the little buckled shoes. A pale oval face that might +have belonged to the youngest and smallest of Botticelli’s Madonnas; +cloudy eyes to match her frock, extravagantly fringed with heavy +lashes; a forlorn, coaxing little mouth; sleek coils of dark hair. A +murmur of interest rose, swelled, and died under Judge Carver’s eagle +eye. + +“Miss Page, what is your present occupation?” + +“I am a librarian at a branch public library in New York.” + +“Is that your regular occupation?” + +“It has been for the past six months.” + +“Was it previous to that time?” + +“Do you mean immediately previous?” + +“At any time previous.” + +“I was assistant librarian in White Plains from 1921 to 1925.” + +“And after that?” + +“During February of 1925 I had a serious attack of flu. It left me in +rather bad shape, and the doctor recommended that I try to get some +work in the country that would keep me outdoors a good deal and give +me plenty of sleep.” + +“And did you decide on any occupation that would fit those +requirements?” + +“Yes. Dr. Leonard suggested that I might try for a position as +governess. One of his patients was looking for a temporary governess +for her children, and he suggested that I might try that.” + +“And did you?” + +“Yes.” + +“You were successful?” + +“Yes.” + +“Who was the patient suggested by Dr. Leonard?” + +“Mrs. Ives.” + +As though the name were a magnet, the faces in the courtroom swung in +a brief half circle toward its owner. There she sat in her brief tweed +skirt and loose jacket, the bright little felt hat pulled severely +down over the shining wings of her hair, her hidden eyes riveted on +her clasped hands in their fawn-coloured gauntlets. At the sound of +her name she lifted her head, glanced briefly and levelly at the +greedy, curious faces pressing toward her, less briefly and more +levelly at the seraphic countenance under the drooping feather on the +witness stand, and returned to the gloves. Only the curve of her lips +remained for the benefit of those prying eyes—a lovely curve, ironic +and inscrutable. The half circle swung back to the demure occupant of +the witness box. + +“And how long were you in Mrs. Ives’s employment?” + +“Until June, 1926.” + +“What day of the month?” + +“The twenty-first.” + +“Then on the night of the nineteenth of June you were still in the +employment of Mrs. Ives?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you be good enough to tell us just what you were doing at eight +o’clock that evening?” + +“I had finished supper at a little before eight and was just settling +down to read in the day nursery when I remembered that I had left my +book down by the sand pile at the end of the garden, where I had been +playing with the children before supper. So I went down to get it.” + +“Had you any way of fixing the time?” + +“Yes. I heard the dining room clock strike eight as I went by. I +noticed it especially, as I thought, ‘That’s eight o’clock and it’s +still broad daylight.’” + +“Did you see anyone on your way out of the house?” + +“I met Mr. Ives just outside the nursery door. He had come in late to +dinner and hadn’t come up to say good-night to the children before. He +asked if they had gone to bed. . . . Shall I go on?” + +“Certainly.” + +“I said that they were in bed but not asleep, and asked him please not +to get them too excited. He had a boat for little Peter in his hand +and I was afraid that he would get him in such a state that I wouldn’t +be able to do anything with him at all.” + +“A boat? What kind of a boat?” + +“A little sailboat—a model of a schooner. Mr. Ives had been working on +it for some time.” + +“Made it himself, had he?” + +“Yes. He was very clever at that kind of thing. He’d made Polly a +wonderful doll house.” + +“Your Honour——” + +“Try to confine yourself directly to the question, Miss Page.” + +“Yes, Your Honour.” The meek contrition of the velvet-voiced Miss Page +was a model for all future witnesses. + +“Was Mr. Ives fond of the children?” + +“Oh, yes, he adored——” + +“I object to that question, Your Honour.” The preliminary tossings had +resolved themselves into an actual upheaval this time and all of the +two hundred and fifty pounds of Mr. Lambert were on his feet. + +“Very well, Mr. Lambert, you may be heard. You object on what +grounds?” + +“I object to this entire line of questioning as absolutely immaterial, +incompetent and irrelevant. How is Miss Page qualified to judge as to +Mr. Ives’s affection for his children? And even if her opinion had the +slightest weight, what has his affection for his children got to do +with the murder of this girl? For reasons which I don’t pretend to +grasp, the learned counsel for the prosecution is simply wasting the +time of this court.” + +“You might permit the Court to be the judge of that.” Judge Carver’s +fine dark eyes rested somewhat critically on the protestant bulk +before him. “Mr. Farr, you may be heard.” + +“Of course, Your Honour, with all due deference to my brilliant +opponent’s fireworks, he’s talking pure nonsense. Miss Page is +perfectly——” + +Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “Mr. Farr, the Court must ask +you once and for all to keep to the matter in hand. Can you connect +your question with this case?” + +“Most certainly. It is the contention of the state that Mrs. Ives +realized perfectly that if Mr. Ives decided that he wanted a divorce +he would fight vigorously for at least partial custody of his +children, whom, as Miss Page was about to tell us, he adored. +Moreover, Mrs. Ives had strong religious objections to divorce. It was +therefore essential to her to get rid of anyone who threatened her +security if she wanted to keep the children. In order to prove this, +it is necessary to establish Mr. Ives’s affection. And it ought to be +perfectly obvious to anyone that Miss Page is in an excellent position +to tell us what that affection was. I maintain that this question is +absolutely relevant and material, and that Miss Page is perfectly +competent to reply to it.” + +“The question may be answered.” + +“Exception.” + +“Mr. Ives adored the children and they adored him. He was with them +constantly.” + +“Was Mrs. Ives fond of them?” + +“Objection on the same grounds, Your Honour.” + +“The question is allowed.” + +“Exception.” + +“Oh, yes, she was devoted to them.” + +“As devoted to them as Mr. Ives?” + +“Now, Your Honour——” + +Judge Carver eyed the impassioned Lambert with temperate interest. +“That seems a fairly broad question, Mr. Farr, calling for a +conclusion.” + +“Very well, Your Honour, I’ll reframe it. Did she seem as fond of them +as Mr. Ives?” + +“Oh, quite, I should think—though, of course, Mrs. Ives is not +demonstrative.” + +“I see—not demonstrative. Cold and reserved, eh?” + +Judge Carver’s stern voice cut sharply across Miss Page’s pretty, +distressed, appealing murmur: “Mr. Farr, the Court is anxious to give +you as much latitude as possible, but we believe that you have gone +quite far enough along this particular line.” + +“I defer entirely to Your Honour’s judgment. . . . Miss Page, was Mrs. +Ives with Mr. Ives when you met him coming into the nursery with the +boat in his hand?” + +“No, Mrs. Ives had already said good-night to the children before her +dinner.” + +“Did Mr. Ives go into the nursery before you went downstairs?” + +“He went past me into the day nursery, and I have no doubt that he +then went into the night nursery.” + +“Never mind that. I only want the facts that are in your actual +knowledge. There were two nurseries, you say?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you be good enough to tell us how they were arranged?” + +“The day and night nurseries are in the right wing of the house, on +the third floor.” + +“What other rooms are on that floor?” + +“My room, a bathroom, and a small sewing room.” + +“Please tell us what the arrangement would be as you enter the front +door.” + +“Let me see—when you come in through the door you come into a very +large hall that takes up almost all the central portion of the house. +The central portion was an old farmhouse, and the wings, that contain +all the rooms really, were added by Mrs. Ives. She knocked out the +inside structure of the farmhouse and left it just a shell that she +made into a big hall three stories high, with galleries around it on +the second and third floors leading to the bedroom wings. There were +two staircases at the back of the hall, leading to the right and left +of the galleries. I’m afraid that I’m not being very clear, but it’s a +little confusing.” + +“You are being quite clear. Tell us just how the rooms open out as you +come through the door.” + +“Well, to the right is a small cloakroom and the big living room. It’s +very large—it forms the whole ground floor of the right wing in fact. +Over it are Mr. and Mrs. Ives’s rooms.” + +“Did Mr. and Mrs. Ives occupy separate rooms?” + +“Oh, no, there was a large bedroom, and on one side of it was Mrs. +Ives’s dressing room and bath, and to the left Mr. Ives’s dressing +room and bath. On the third floor were the nurseries and my room. On +the left downstairs as you came in was a little flower room.” + +“A flower room?” + +“A room that was used for arranging flowers, you know. Mrs. Daniel +Ives used it a great deal. It had shelves of vases and a sink and a +big porcelain-topped table. The downstairs telephone was in there, +too, and——” + +“Your Honour, may we ask where all this is leading?” Mr. Lambert’s +tone was tremulous with impatience. + +“You may. The Court was about to make the same inquiry. Is this +exhaustive questioning necessary, Mr. Farr?” + +“Absolutely necessary, Your Honour. I can assure Mr. Lambert that it +is leading to a very interesting conclusion, however distasteful he +may find both the path and the goal. I will be as brief as possible, I +promise.” + +“Very well, you may continue, Miss Page.” + +Miss Page raised limpid eyes in appealing deprecation. “I’m so +frightfully sorry. I’ve absolutely forgotten where I was.” + +“You were telling us that there was a telephone in the flower room.” + +“Oh, yes—that is in the first room to the left as you come in. It’s +really part of the hall.” + +“You mean that it has no door?” + +“No, no, it has a door. I simply meant that you came to it before you +entered the left wing. It balances the cloakroom on the right-hand +side. They’re rather like very large closets, you know, except that +they both have windows.” + +“What do the windows open on to?” + +“The front porch. . . . Shall I go on with the rooms?” + +“Please, and as briefly as possible.” + +“The first room in the left wing is Mr. Ives’s study. It opens into +the dining room. They form the ground floor of the left wing. Above +them are Mrs. Daniel Ives’s room and bath and two guest rooms and +another bath. Above these on the third floor are the servants’ +quarters.” + +“How many servants were there?” + +“Let me see—there were six, I think, but only the four maids lived in +the house.” + +“Please tell us who they were.” + +“There was the cook, Anna Baker; the waitress, Melanie Cordier; the +chambermaid, Katie Brien; and Laura Roberts, Mrs. Ives’s personal maid +and seamstress. They had four small rooms in the left wing, third +floor. James and Robert MacDonald, the chauffeur and gardener, were +brothers and lived in quarters over the garage. Oh, there was a +laundress, too, but I don’t remember her name. She didn’t live in the +house—only came in four days a week.” + +“You have described the entire household?” + +“Yes.” + +“And the entire layout of the house?” + +“Yes—well, with the exception of the service quarters. You reached +them through a door at the back of the big hall—kitchen, laundry, +servants’ dining room and pantry, which opened also into the dining +room. They ran across the back of the house. Do you want me to +describe them further?” + +“Thanks, no. We can go on with your story now. Did you see anyone but +Mr. Ives on your way to the sand pile?” + +“Not in the house. I passed Mrs. Daniel Ives on my way through the +rose garden. She always used to work there after dinner until it got +dark. She asked me as I went by if the children were asleep, and I +told her that Mr. Ives was with them.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I found the book in the swing by the sand pile and went back across +the lawn to the house. As I was starting up the steps, I heard Mrs. +Patrick Ives’s voice, speaking from the flower room at the left of the +front door. She was speaking very softly, but the window on to the +porch was open and I could hear her distinctly.” + +“Was she speaking to someone in the room?” + +“No, she was telephoning. I think that I’ve already said that the +downstairs ’phone is in that room. She was giving a telephone +number—Rosemont 200.” + +“Were you familiar with that number?” + +“Oh, quite. I had called it up for Mrs. Ives several times.” + +“Whose number was it, Miss Page?” + +“It was Mr. Stephen Bellamy’s telephone number.” + +The courtroom pulsed to galvanized attention, its eyes whipping to +Stephen Bellamy’s tired, dark face. It was lit with a strange, +friendly, reassuring smile, directed straight at Susan Ives’s startled +countenance. For a moment she stared back at him soberly, then slowly +the colour came back into her parted lips, which curved gravely to +mirror that voiceless greeting. For a long moment their eyes rested on +each other before they returned to their accustomed guarded +inscrutability. As clearly as though they were shouting across the +straining faces, those lingering eyes called to each other, “Courage!” + +“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly, Miss Page?” + +“Very distinctly.” + +“Will you tell us just what she said?” + +“She said”—Miss Page frowned a little in concentration and then went +on steadily—“she said, ‘Is that you, Stephen? . . . It’s Sue—Sue Ives. +Is Mimi there? . . . How long ago did she leave? . . . Are you sure +she went there? . . . No, wait—this is vital. I have to see you at +once. Can you get the car here in ten minutes? . . . No, not at the +house. Stop at the far corner of the back road. I’ll come through the +back gate to meet you. . . . Elliot didn’t say anything to you? . . . +No, no, never mind that—just hurry.’” + +“Is that all that she said?” + +“She said good-bye.” + +“Nothing else?” + +“Nothing else.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I turned back from the porch steps and circled the house to the +right, going in by the side door and on up to the nursery.” + +“Why did you do that?” + +“I didn’t want Mrs. Ives to know that I had overheard her +conversation. I thought if by any chance she saw me coming in through +the side door, it would not occur to her that I could have heard it +from there.” + +“I see. When you got up to the nursery was Mr. Ives still there?” + +“Yes; he came out of the night nursery when he heard me and said that +the children were quiet now.” + +“Did he say anything else to you?” + +“Yes; he still had the boat in his hand, and he said there was +something that he wanted to fix about the rudder, and that he’d bring +it back in the morning.” + +“Did you say anything to him?” + +“Yes.” + +“Please tell us what you said.” + +“I told him that I had just overheard a telephone conversation that +his wife was having with Mr. Bellamy, and that I thought he should +know about it.” + +“Did you tell him about it?” + +“Not at that moment. As I was about to do so, Mrs. Ives herself called +up from the foot of the stairs to ask Mr. Ives if he still intended to +go to the poker game at the Dallases. . . . Shall I go on?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Mr. Ives said yes, and Mrs. Ives said that in that case she would go +to the movies with the Conroys, who had asked her before dinner. Mr. +Ives asked her if he couldn’t drop her there, and she said no—that it +was only a short walk and that she needed the exercise. She went +straight out of the front door, I think. I heard it slam behind her.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“I said, ‘Your wife has gone to meet Stephen Bellamy.’” + +“And then what happened?” + +“Mr. Ives said, ‘Don’t be a damned little fool.’” + +Miss Page smiled meekly and appreciatively at the audible ripple from +the other side of the railing. + +“Did you say anything to that?” + +“I simply repeated the telephone conversation.” + +“Word for word?” + +“Word for word, and when I’d finished, he said, ‘My God, somebody’s +told her.’” + +“I object. Your Honour, I ask that that be stricken from the record!” +Lambert’s frenzied clamour filled the room. “What Mr. Ives said——” + +“It may be stricken out.” + +Judge Carver’s tone was the sternest of rebukes, but the unchastened +prosecutor stood staring down at her demure face triumphant for +a moment, and then, with a brief expressive gesture toward the +defense, turned her abruptly over to their mercies. “That’s all. +Cross-examine.” + +“No lunch to-day either?” + +“No, I’ve got to get these notes off.” + +The red-headed girl proudly exhibited an untidy pile of telegraph +blanks and a much-bitten pencil. The gold pencil and the black leather +notebook had been flung contemptuously out of the cab window on the +way back to the boarding house the night before. + +“Me too. We’ll finish ’em up here and I’ll get ’em off for you. . . . +Here’s your apple.” + +The red-headed girl took it obediently, a fine glow invading her. How +simply superb to be working there beside a real reporter; such a fire +of comradeship and good will burned in her that it set twin fires +flaming in her cheeks. The newspaper game! There was nothing like it, +absolutely. Her pencil tore across the page in a fever of industry. + +It was almost fifty minutes before the reporter spoke again, and then +it was only in reply to a question: “What—what did you think of her?” + +“Think of whom?” + +“Of Kathleen Page.” + +“Well, you don’t happen to have a pat of the very best butter about +you?” + +“Whatever for?” + +“To see if it would melt in her mouth.” + +“It wouldn’t,” said the red-headed girl; and added fiercely, “I hate +her—nasty, hypocritical, unprincipled little toad!” + +“Oh, come, come! I hope that you won’t allow any of this to creep into +those notes of yours.” + +“She probably killed Mimi Bellamy herself,” replied the newest member +of the Fourth Estate darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past her for a moment. +She——” + +“The Court!” + +The red-headed girl flounced to her feet, the fires still burning in +her cheeks, eyeing Miss Page’s graceful ascent to the witness box with +a baleful eye. “I hope she’s headed straight for all the trouble there +is,” she remarked between clenched teeth to the reporter. + +For the moment it looked as though her wish were about to be +gratified. + +Mr. Lambert lumbered menacingly toward the witness box, his ruddy face +grim and relentless. “You remember a great deal about that evening, +don’t you, Miss Page?” + +“I have a very good memory.” Miss Page’s voice was the prettiest +mixture of pride and humility. + +“Do you happen to remember the book that you were reading?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Give us the title, please.” + +“The book was _Cytherea_, one of Hergesheimer’s old novels.” + +“Was it your own book?” + +“No, it came from Mr. Ives’s study.” + +“Had he loaned it to you?” + +“No.” + +“Had Mrs. Ives loaned it to you?” + +“No one had loaned it to me; I had simply borrowed it from the study.” + +“Oh, you were given the run of the books in Mr. Ives’s study? I see.” +Miss Page sat silent, eyeing him steadily, only a slight stain of +colour under the clear, pale skin betraying the fact that she had +heard him. “Were you?” demanded Mr. Lambert savagely, leaning toward +her. + +“Was I what?” + +“Were you given the run of Mr. Ives’s library?” + +“I had never stopped to formulate it in that way. I supposed that +there could be no possible objection to taking an occasional book.” + +“I see. You regarded yourself as one of the family?” + +“Oh, hardly that.” + +“Did you take your meals with them?” + +“No.” + +“Spend the evenings with them?” + +“No.” + +Miss Page’s fringed eyes were as luminous and steady as ever, but the +stain in her cheeks had spread to her throat. + +“You resented that fact, didn’t you?” + +The prosecutor’s voice whipped out of the brief silence like a sword +leaping from the scabbard: “I object to that question. To paraphrase +my learned opponent, what possible relevance has Miss Page’s sense of +resentment or contentment got to do with the murder of this girl?” + +“And to quote my witty adversary’s reply, Your Honour, it has +everything to do with it. We propose definitely to attack Miss Page’s +credibility. We believe we can show that she detested Mrs. Ives and +would not hesitate to do her a disservice.” + +“Oh,” said the prosecutor, with much deliberation, “that’s what you +propose to show, is it?” + +Even the clatter of the judge’s gavel did not cause him to turn his +head an inch. He continued to gaze imperturbably at the occupant in +the box, who, demure and pensive, returned it unswervingly. In the +brief moment occupied by the prosecutor’s skilful intervention the +flush had faded entirely. Miss Page looked as cool and tranquil as a +little spring in the forest. + +“You may answer the question, Miss Page,” said the judge a trifle +sternly. + +“May I have the question repeated?” + +“I asked whether you didn’t resent the fact that you were treated as a +servant rather than as a member of the household.” + +“It never entered my head that I was being treated as a servant,” said +Miss Page gently. + +“It never entered your head?” + +“Not for a moment.” + +“You were perfectly satisfied with your situation in every way?” + +“Oh, perfectly.” + +“No cause for complaint whatever?” + +“None whatever.” + +“Miss Page, is this your writing? Don’t trouble to read it—simply tell +me whether it is your writing.” + +Miss Page bent docilely over the square of pale blue paper. “It looks +like my writing.” + +“I didn’t ask you whether it looked like it—I asked you if it was your +writing.” + +“I really couldn’t tell you that. Handwriting can be perfectly +imitated, can’t it?” + +“Are you cross-examining me or am I cross-examining you?” + +Miss Page permitted herself a small, fugitive smile. “I believe that +you are supposed to be cross-examining me.” + +“Then be good enough to answer my question. To the best of your +belief, is this your writing?” + +“It is either my writing or a very good imitation of it.” + +The outraged Mr. Lambert snatched the innocuous bit of paper from +under his composed victim’s nose and proffered it to the clerk of the +court as though it were something unclean. “I offer this letter in +evidence.” + +“Just one moment,” said the prosecutor gently. “I don’t want to waste +the Court’s time with a lot of useless objections, but it seems to me +that this letter has not yet been identified by Miss Page, and as you +are evidently unwilling to let her read it, for some occult reason +that I don’t presume to understand, I must object to its being offered +in evidence.” + +“What does this letter purport to be, Mr. Lambert?” inquired the judge +amiably. + +Mr. Lambert turned his flaming countenance on the Court. “It purports +to be exactly what it is, Your Honour—a letter from Miss Page to her +former employer, Mrs. Ives. And I am simply amazed at this hocus-pocus +about her not being able to identify her own writing being tolerated +for a minute. I——” + +“Kindly permit the Court to decide what will be tolerated in the +conduct of this case,” remarked the judge, in a voice from which all +traces of amiability had been swept as by a cold wind. “What is the +date of the purported letter?” + +“May 7, 1925.” + +“Did you write Mrs. Ives a letter on that date, Miss Page?” + +“That’s quite a time ago, Your Honour. I certainly shouldn’t like to +make any such statement under oath.” + +“Would it refresh your memory if you were to look over the letter?” + +“Oh, certainly.” + +“I think that you had better let Miss Page look over the letter if you +wish to offer it in evidence, Mr. Lambert.” + +Once more Mr. Lambert menacingly tendered the blue square, which Miss +Page considered in a leisurely and composed manner in no way +calculated to tranquillize the storm of indignation that was rocking +him. Her perusal completed, she lifted a gracious countenance to the +inflamed one before her. “Oh, yes, that is my letter.” + +Mr. Lambert snatched it ungratefully. “I again offer this in +evidence.” + +“No objection,” said the prosecutor blandly. + +“Now that you have fortified yourself with its contents, Miss Page, I +will ask you to reconcile some of the statements that it contains with +some later statements of yours made here under oath this afternoon: + + “My dear Mrs. Ives: + + “I would like to call your attention to the fact that for the past + three nights the food served me has evidently been that discarded by + your servants as unfit for consumption. As you do not care to + discuss these matters with me personally, I am forced to resort to + this means of communication, and I ask you to believe that it is + literally impossible to eat the type of meal that has been put + before me lately. Boiled mutton which closely resembled boiled + dishrags, stewed turnips, and a kind of white jelly that I was later + informed was intended to be rice, and a savoury concoction of dried + apricots, and sour milk was the menu for yesterday evening. You have + made it abundantly clear to me that you regard me as a species of + overpaid servant, but I confess that I had not gathered that slow + starvation was to be one of my duties. + + “Sincerely, + “Kathleen Page.” + +“Kindly reconcile your statement that it had never entered your head +that you were being treated as a servant with this sentence: ‘You have +made it abundantly clear that you regard me as a species of overpaid +servant.’” + +“That was a silly overwrought letter written by me when I was still +suffering from the effects of a nervous and physical collapse. I had +completely forgotten ever having written it.” + +“Oh, you had, had you? Completely forgotten it, eh? Never thought of +it from that day to this? Well, just give us the benefit of that +wonderful memory of yours once more and tell us the effect of this +letter on your relations with Mrs. Ives?” + +“It had a very fortunate effect,” said Miss Page, with her prettiest +smile. “Mrs. Ives very kindly rectified the situation that I was +indiscreet enough to complain of, and the whole matter was cleared up +and adjusted most happily.” + +“What?” The astounded monosyllable cracked through the courtroom like +a rifle shot. + +“I said that it was all adjusted most happily,” replied Miss Page +sunnily and helpfully, raising her voice slightly. + +Actual stupor had apparently descended on her interrogator. + +“Miss Page, you make it difficult for me to credit my ears. Is it not +the fact that Mrs. Ives sent for you at once on receipt of that note, +offered you a month’s wages in lieu of notice, and requested you to +leave the following day?” + +“Nothing could be farther from the fact.” + +Mr. Lambert’s voice seemed about to forsake him at the calm finality +of this reply. He opened his mouth twice with no audible results, but +at the third effort something closely resembling a roar emerged: “Are +you telling me that you did not go on your knees to Mrs. Ives in +floods of tears and tell her that it would be signing your death +warrant to turn you out then, and implore her to give you another +chance?” + +“I am telling you,” said Miss Page equably, “that nothing remotely +resembling that occurred. Mrs. Ives was extremely regretful and +considerate, and there was not a word as to my leaving.” + +Apoplexy hovered tentatively over Mr. Lambert’s bulky shoulder. “Do +you deny that two days before this murder your insolence had once more +precipitated a scene that had resulted in your dismissal, and that you +were intending to leave on the following Monday?” + +“Most certainly I deny it.” + +“A scene that arose from the fact that during Mrs. Ives’s absence in +town you ordered the car to take you and a friend of yours from White +Plains for a three-hour drive in the country, and that when Mrs. Ives +telephoned from town to have the car meet her, as she was returning +that afternoon instead of the next day, she was informed that you were +out in it and she was obliged to take a taxi?” + +“That is not true either.” + +“It is not true that you went for a drive with a young man that +afternoon?” + +“Oh, that is quite true; but I had Mrs. Ives’s permission to do so +before she left.” + +For a moment Mr. Lambert turned his crimson countenance toward Susan +Ives. She had lifted her head and was staring, steadily and +contemptuously, at her erstwhile nursery governess, whose limpid eyes +moved only from Mr. Lambert to Mr. Farr and back. Even the contempt +could not extinguish a frankly diverted twist to her lips at the pat +audacity of the gentle replies. Evidently Mr. Lambert could find no +comfort there. He turned back to his witness. + +“Miss Page, do you know what perjury is?” + +“Your Honour——” + +Miss Page’s lightning promptitude cut through the prosecutor’s voice: +“It’s a demonstrably false statement made under oath, isn’t it?” + +“Just wait a minute, please, Miss Page. Your Honour, I respectfully +submit that this entire line of cross-examination by Mr. Lambert is +extremely objectionable. I have let it go this far because I don’t +want to prolong this trial with a lot of unnecessary bickering; but, +as far as I can see, he has simply been entertaining the jury with a +series of exciting little episodes that there is not a shred of reason +to believe are not the offspring of his own fertile imagination. +According to Miss Page, they are just exactly that. They are, however, +skilfully calculated to prejudice her in the eyes of the jury, and +when Mr. Lambert goes so far as to imply in no uncertain manner that +Miss Page’s denial of these fantasies is perjury, I can no longer——” + +“Your Honour, do you consider this oration for the benefit of the jury +proper?” Mr. Lambert’s voice was unsteady with rage. + +“I do not, sir. Nor do I consider it the only impropriety that has +occurred. I see no legitimate place in cross-examination for a request +for a definition of perjury. However, you have received your reply. +You may proceed with your cross-examination.” + +“Miss Page, when you realized that Mrs. Ives was talking to someone on +the telephone, why did you not go on into the house?” + +“Because I was interested in what she was saying.” + +“So you eavesdropped, eh?” + +“Yes.” + +“A very pretty, honourable, decent thing to do in your opinion?” + +“Oh,” said Miss Page, with her most disarming smile, “I don’t pretend +not to be human.” + +“Well, that’s very reassuring. Can you tell us why Mrs. Ives didn’t +hear you outside on the porch, Miss Page?” + +“I wasn’t on the porch. I had just started to come up the steps when I +stopped to listen. I had on tennis shoes, which wouldn’t make any +noise at all on the lawn.” + +“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly?” + +“Oh, quite.” + +“So that anybody else could have heard her distinctly too?” + +“Anyone who was standing in that place could have—yes.” + +“She was making a secret rendezvous and yet was speaking in a tone +sufficiently audible for any passer-by to hear?” + +“She probably thought that there would be no passer-by.” + +“Your Honour, I ask to have that stricken from the record as +deliberately unresponsive.” + +“You were not asked as to Mrs. Ives’s thoughts, Miss Page. Mr. Lambert +asked you whether any passer-by could not have heard Mrs. Ives’s +conversation.” + +“Anyone who passed over the route that I did could have heard it +perfectly.” + +“Mr. Patrick Ives could have heard it?” + +“Mr. Patrick Ives was upstairs.” + +“That was not my question. I asked you if Patrick Ives could not have +heard it quite as readily as you?” + +“He could, if he had been there.” + +“Miss Page, will you be good enough to repeat that conversation for us +once again?” + +“The whole thing?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Mrs. Ives said”—again the little frown of concentration—“she said, +‘Is that you Stephen? . . . It’s Sue—Sue Ives. Is Mimi there? . . . +How long ago did she leave? . . . Are you sure she went there? . . . +No, wait—this is vital—I have to see you at once. Can you get the car +here in ten minutes? . . . No, not at the house. Stop at the far +corner of the back road. I’ll come through the back gate to meet +you. . . . Elliot hasn’t said anything to you? . . . No, no, never +mind that—just hurry. . . . Good-bye.’” + +Mr. Lambert beamed at her—a ferocious and colossal beam. “Now, that’s +very nice—very nice, indeed, Miss Page. Every word pat, eh? Almost as +though you’d learned it by heart, shouldn’t you say?” + +“That’s probably because I did learn it by heart,” proffered Miss Page +helpfully. + +The beam forsook Mr. Lambert’s countenance, leaving the ferocity. “Oh, +you learned it by heart, did you? Between the front steps and the side +door, I suppose?” + +“Not exactly. I wrote it down before I went in the side door.” + +“You did what?” + +“I wrote it down while Mrs. Ives was talking, most of it. The last +sentence or so I did just before I came in.” + +Mr. Lambert took a convulsive grip on his sagging jaw. “Oh, indeed! +Brought back a portable typewriter and a fountain pen and a box of +notepaper from the sand pile, too, I suppose?” + +Miss Page smiled patiently and politely. + +“No; but I had some crayons of the children’s in my sweater pocket.” + +“And half a dozen pads, too, no doubt?” + +“No, I wrote it on the flyleaf of the book—_Cytherea_, you know.” + +“For what purpose did you write this down?” The voice of Mr. Lambert +was the voice of one who has run hard and long toward a receding goal. + +“It sounded important to me; I didn’t want to make any mistakes.” + +“Quite so. So your story is that you took this information, which you +admit you acquired by eavesdropping on the woman you claim had been +invariably kind and generous to you, straight to her husband, in the +fond expectation of ruining both their lives?” + +“Oh, no, indeed—in the expectation of saving them. Mr. Ives had been +even kinder to me than Mrs. Ives; I was desperately anxious to help +them both.” + +“And this was your idea of helping them?” + +“It was probably a stupid way,” said Miss Page humbly. “But it was the +only one that I could think of. I was afraid they were planning to +elope, and I thought that Mr. Ives might be able to stop them. You +see, I hadn’t realized then the real significance of the telephone +conversation.” + +“What real significance, if you please?” + +“The fact that someone must have told Mrs. Ives all about Mr. Ives’s +affair with Mrs. Bellamy before she went out that night,” said Miss +Page softly. + +“Your Honour,” said the flagging voice— “Your Honour, I ask that that +reply be stricken from the record as unresponsive.” + +“The Court does not regard it as unresponsive. You requested Miss Page +to give her final interpretation of the telephone conversation and she +has given it.” + +“May I have an exception, Your Honour?” + +“Certainly.” + +“Then the story that you expect this jury to believe, Miss Page, +is that nothing but affectionate zeal prompted you to spy on +this benefactress of yours and to bear the glad tidings of her +infidelity to her unsuspecting husband—tidings acquired through a +reputed conversation of which you were the sole witness and the +self-constituted recorder?” + +“I hope that they will believe me,” said Miss Page meekly. For one +brief moment her ingenuous eyes rested appealingly on the twelve +stolid and inscrutable countenances. + +“And I hope that you are unduly optimistic,” said Mr. Lambert heavily. +“That is all, Miss Page.” + +“Just one moment,” said the prosecutor easily. “Miss Page, when Mr. +Lambert asked you whether anyone couldn’t have overheard that +conversation, he prevented you from explaining why no one was likely +to. Let’s first get that straight. Where was Mrs. Daniel Ives?” + +“In the rose garden.” + +“That was where she usually went after dinner, wasn’t it?” + +“Always, I think. She used to work out there for an hour or so until +it got dark, because that was the coolest part of the day.” + +“Was the rose garden visible from the study?” + +“Quite clearly. A window overlooked the little paved terrace that led +down into the rose garden.” + +“So that it would have been simple for Mrs. Ives to verify whether +Mrs. Daniel Ives was in the garden?” + +“Oh, quite.” + +“Where were the servants apt to be at that time?” + +“They would be having their dinner in the back part of the house—they +dined after the family.” + +“What about Mr. Patrick Ives?” + +“Mrs. Ives knew that he had gone upstairs. He told me that she had +been helping him to fasten the little pennant on in the study just +before he came up.” + +“And she thought that you were upstairs, too, didn’t she?” + +“Oh, yes; I was not in the habit of coming down after dinner. I had my +meals in the nursery.” + +“Did Mr. Ives use the study much—to write or to work in, I mean?” + +“I don’t know how much he worked in it; he had quite a collection of +technical volumes in it, but I don’t believe that he did much writing, +though. He had a very large, flat-topped desk that he used as a kind +of work bench.” + +“Where he made the boats and dollhouses?” + +“Yes.” + +“Kept his tools and materials?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was that desk visible from the door?” + +“Yes; it was directly opposite the door into the hall.” + +“Would a person going from the flower room to the foot of the nursery +stairs pass it?” + +“They could not very well avoid doing so.” + +“Would the contents of the top of the desk be visible from the +doorway?” + +“Oh, surely. The study is not a large room.” + +The prosecutor made two strides toward the witness box. Something +small and dark and bright glinted for a moment in his hand. “Miss +Page, have you ever seen this knife before?” + +Very delicately Miss Page lifted it in her slender fingers, eyeing it +gravely and fastidiously. “Yes,” she said quietly. + +A little wind seemed to blow suddenly through the courtroom—a little, +cold, ominous wind. + +“Where?” + +“On the desk in Mr. Patrick Ives’s study on the afternoon of the +nineteenth of June, 1926.” + +In a voice almost as gentle as her own, the prosecutor said, “That +will be all, Miss Page. You may go.” + +And as lightly, as softly as she had come, Miss Page slipped from the +witness box and was gone. + +The second day of the Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER III + +“Oh, I knew I would be—I knew it!” moaned the red-headed girl crawling +abjectly over three irritated and unhelpful members of the Fourth +Estate, dropping her pencil, dropping her notebook, dropping a pair of +gray gloves and a squirrel scarf, and lifting a stricken face to the +menacing countenance of Ben Potts, king of court criers. “I’ve been +late for every single thing that’s happened since I got to this +wretched town. It’s like Alice in Wonderland—you have to run like mad +to keep in the same place. Who’s talking? What’s happened?” + +“Well, you seem to be doing most of the talking,” replied the real +reporter unkindly. “And about all that’s happened has been fifteen +minutes of as hot legal brimstone and sulphur as you’d want to hear in +a thousand years, emitted by the Mephistophelean Farr, who thinks it +would be nice to have a jackknife in evidence, and the inflammable +Lambert, who thinks it would be horrid. Mr. Lambert was mistaken, the +knife is in, and they’re just opening a few windows to clear the air. +Outside of that, everything’s lovely. Not a soul’s confessed, the day +is young, and Mr. Douglas Thorne is just taking the stand. Carry on!” + +The red-headed girl watched the lean, bronzed gentleman with sandy +hair and a look of effortless distinction with approval. Nice eyes, +nice hands. + +“Mr. Thorne, what is your occupation?” + +Nice voice: “I am a member of the New York Stock Exchange.” + +“Are you a relative of the defendant, Susan Ives?” + +“Her elder brother, I’m proud to say.” + +His pleasant eyes smiled down at the slight figure in the familiar +tweed suit, and for the first since she had come to court Sue Ives +smiled back freely and spontaneously— a friendly, joyous smile, +brilliant as a banner. + +The prosecutor lifted a warning hand. “Please stick to the issue, Mr. +Thorne, and we’ll take your affection for your sister for granted. Are +you the proprietor of the old Thorne estate, Orchards?” + +“Yes.” + +“The sole proprietor?” + +“The sole proprietor.” + +“Why did your sister not share in that estate, Mr. Thorne?” + +“My father no longer regarded my sister as his heir after she married +Patrick Ives. He took a violent dislike to Mr. Ives from the first, +and it was distinctly against his wishes that Sue married him.” + +“Did you share this dislike?” + +“For Patrick? Oh, no. At the time I hardly knew him, and later I +became extremely fond of him.” + +“You still are?” + +The pleasant gray eyes, suddenly grave, looked back unswervingly into +the hot blue fire of the prosecutor’s. “That is a difficult question +to answer categorically. Perhaps the most accurate reply that I can +give is that at present I am reserving an opinion on my brother-in-law +and his conduct.” + +“That’s hardly a satisfactory reply, Mr. Thorne.” + +“I regret it; it is an honest one.” + +“Well, let’s put it this way: You are devoted to your sister, aren’t +you, Mr. Thorne?” + +“Very deeply devoted.” + +“You admit that her happiness is dear to you?” + +“I don’t particularly care for the word ‘admit’; I state willingly +that her happiness is very dear to me.” + +“And you would do anything to secure it?” + +“I would do a great deal.” + +“Anything?” + +Douglas Thorne leaned forward over the witness box, his face suddenly +stern. “If by ‘anything,’ Mr. Farr, you mean would I commit murder, my +reply is no.” + +Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “That is an entirely uncalled +for conclusion, Mr. Thorne. It may be stricken from the record.” + +“Kindly reply to my question, Mr. Thorne. Would you not do anything in +order to secure your sister’s happiness?” + +“No.” + +Once more Sue Ives’s smile flew like a banner. + +“Mr. Thorne, did your sister ever speak to you about her first two or +three years in New York?” + +“I have a vague general impression that we discussed certain aspects +of it, such as living conditions there at the time, and——” + +“Vague general impressions aren’t what we want. You have no specific +knowledge of where they were or what they were doing at the time?” + +“I can recall nothing at the moment.” + +“Your sister, to whom you are so devoted, never once communicated with +you during that time?” + +“I received a letter from her about a week after she left Rosemont, +stating that she thought that for the time being it would be better to +sever all connections with Rosemont, but that her affection for all of +us was unchanged.” + +“I haven’t asked you for the contents of the letter. Is that the only +communication that you received from her during those years in New +York?” + +“With the exception of Christmas cards, I heard nothing more for a +little over two years. Then she began to write fairly regularly.” + +“Mr. Thorne, were you on the estate of Orchards at any time on June +19, 1926?” + +“I was.” + +There was a sudden stir and ripple throughout the court room. “Now!” +said the ripple. “Now! At last!” + +“At what time?” + +“I couldn’t state the exact time at which I arrived, but I believe +that it must have been shortly after nine in the evening.” + +The ripples broke into little waves. Nine o’clock—nine—— + +“And at what time did you leave?” + +“That I can tell you exactly. I left the main house at Orchards at +exactly ten minutes to ten.” + +The ripples broke into little waves. Ten o’clock—ten—— + +“Silence!” banged Judge Carver’s gavel. + +“Silence!” sang Ben Potts. + +“Please tell us what you were doing at Orchards during that hour.” + +“It was considerably less than an hour. Mr. Conroy had telephoned me +shortly before dinner, asking me to leave the keys at the cottage, +which I gladly agreed to do, as I had been intending for some time to +get some old account books I had left in my desk at the main house. I +didn’t notice the exact time at which I left Lakedale, but it must +have been about half-past eight, as we dine at half-past seven, and I +smoked a cigar before I started. I drove over at a fair rate of +speed—around thirty-five miles an hour, say—and went straight to the +main house.” + +“You did not stop at the gardener’s cottage?” + +“No; I——” + +“Yet you pass it on your way from the lodge to the house, don’t you?” + +“No, coming from Lakedale I use the River Road; the first entrance off +the road leads straight from the back of the place to the main house; +the lodge gates are at the opposite end of the place on the main road +from Rosemont. Shall I go on?” + +“Certainly.” + +“It was just beginning to get dark when I arrived, and the electricity +was shut off, so I didn’t linger in the house—just procured the papers +and cleared out. When I got back to the car, I decided to leave it +there and walk over to the cottage and back. It was only a ten-minute +walk each way, and it was a fine evening. I started off——” + +“You say that it was dark at the time?” + +“It was fairly dark when I started, and quite dark as I approached the +cottage.” + +“Was there a moon?” + +“I don’t think so; I remember noticing the stars on the way home, but +I am quite sure that there was no moon at that time.” + +“You met no one on your way to the cottage?” + +“No one at all.” + +“You saw nothing to attract your attention?” + +“No.” + +“And heard nothing?” + +“Yes,” said Douglas Thorne, as quietly and unemphatically as he had +said no. + +The prosecutor took a quick step forward. “You say you heard +something? What did you hear?” + +“I heard a woman scream.” + +“Nothing else?” + +“Yes, a second or so afterward I heard a man laugh.” + +“A man laugh?” the prosecutor’s voice was rough with incredulity. +“What kind of a laugh?” + +“I don’t know how to characterize it,” said Mr. Thorne simply. “It was +an ordinary enough laugh, in a rather deep masculine voice. It didn’t +strike me as in any way extraordinary.” + +“It didn’t strike you as extraordinary to hear a woman scream and a +man laugh in a deserted place at that hour of the night?” + +“No, frankly, it didn’t. My first reaction was that the caretaker and +his wife had returned from their vacation earlier than we had expected +them; or if not, that possibly some of the young people from the +village were indulging in some romantic trespassing—that’s not +unknown, I may state.” + +“You heard no words? No voices?” + +“Oh, no; I was about three hundred feet from the cottage at the time +that I heard the scream.” + +“You did not consider that that sound was the voice of a woman raised +in mortal terror?” + +“No,” said Douglas Thorne. “Naturally, if I had, I should have done +something to investigate. I was somewhat startled when I first heard +it, but the laugh following so promptly completely reassured me. A +scream of terror, a scream of pain, a scream of surprise, a scream of +more or less perfunctory protest—I doubt whether anyone could +distinguish between them at three hundred feet. I certainly couldn’t.” + +The prosecutor shook his head irritably; he seemed hardly to be +listening to this lucid exposition. “You’re quite sure about the +laugh—you heard it distinctly?” + +“Oh, perfectly distinctly.” + +“Could you see the cottage from where you stood at the time?” + +“No; the bend in the road and the high shrubbery hide it completely +until you are almost on top of it.” + +“Then you don’t know whether it was lighted when you heard the +scream?” + +“No; I only know that it was dark when I reached it a moment or so +later.” + +“What did you do when you reached the cottage?” + +“I noticed that it was dark as I ran up the steps, but on the off +chance that it might have been the gardener that I had heard, I rang +the bell half mechanically and tried the door, as I wanted to explain +to him about Mr. Conroy’s visit in the morning. The door was locked.” + +“You had the key on the ring, hadn’t you?” + +“Yes; but I had no reason in the world for going in if the gardener +wasn’t there.” + +“You heard no sound from within?” + +“Not a sound.” + +“And nothing from without?” + +“Everything was perfectly quiet.” + +“No one could have passed you at any time?” + +“Oh, certainly not.” + +“Mr. Thorne, would it have been possible for anyone in the cottage to +have heard you approaching?” + +“I think that it might have been possible. The night was very still, +and the main drive down which I was walking is of crushed gravel. The +little drive off it that circles the house is of dirt; I don’t know +how clear footsteps would be on that, but of course anyone would have +heard me going up the steps. I have a vague impression, too, that I +was whistling.” + +“Could anyone have been concealed in the shrubbery about the house?” + +“Oh, quite easily. The shrubbery is very high all about it.” + +“But you noticed no one?” + +“No one.” + +“What did you do after you had decided that the house was empty?” + +“I put the keys under the mat, as had been agreed, and returned to the +main house. As I got into my roadster, I looked at my wrist watch by +one of the headlights. It was exactly ten minutes to ten.” + +“What caused you to consult your watch?” + +“I’d had a vague notion that I might run over to see my sister for a +few minutes, as I was in the neighbourhood, but when I discovered that +it was nearly ten, I changed my mind and went straight back to +Lakedale.” + +“Mr. Thorne, you must have been perfectly aware when the news of the +murder came out the next morning that you had information in your +possession that would have been of great value to the state. Why did +you not communicate it at once?” + +Douglas Thorne met the prosecutor’s gaze steadily, with a countenance +free of either defiance or concern. “Because, frankly, I had no desire +whatever to be involved, however remotely, in a murder case. I was +still debating my duty in the matter two days later, when my sister +and Mr. Bellamy were arrested, and the papers announced that the state +had positive information that the murder was committed between quarter +to nine and quarter to ten on the night of the nineteenth. That seemed +to render my meagre observations quite valueless, and I accordingly +kept them to myself.” + +“And I suppose you fully realize now that you have put yourself in a +highly equivocal position by doing so?” + +“Why, no, Mr. Farr; I may be unduly obtuse, but I assure you that I +realize nothing of the kind.” + +“Let me endeavour to enlighten you. According to your own story, you +must have heard that scream between nine-thirty and twenty-five +minutes to ten, granting that you spent three or four minutes on the +cottage porch and took ten minutes to walk back to the house. +According to you, you arrived at the scene of action within three +minutes of that scream, to find everything dark, silent and orderly. +It is the state’s contention that somewhere in that orderly darkness, +practically within reach of your outstretched hand, stood your +idolized sister. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?” + +“It is quite a coincidence that that should be your contention,” +remarked Douglas Thorne, a dangerous glint in his eye. “But I know of +no scandal attached to coincidence.” + +“Well, this particular type of coincidence has landed more than one +man in jail as accessory after the fact,” remarked the prosecutor +grimly. “What time did you get back to Lakedale that night?” + +“At ten-thirty.” + +“Did anyone see you?” + +“My wife was on the porch when I arrived.” + +“Anyone else?” + +“No.” + +“That’s all, Mr. Thorne. Cross-examine.” + +Mr. Lambert approached the witness box at almost a prance, his broad +countenance smouldering with ill-concealed excitement. “Mr. Thorne, +I’ll trouble you with only two questions. My distinguished adversary +has asked you whether you noticed anything unusual in the +neighbourhood of the cottage. I ask you whether in that vicinity you +saw at any time a car—an automobile?” + +“I saw no sign of a car.” + +“No sign of a small Chevrolet, for instance—of Mr. Bellamy’s, for +instance?” + +“No sign of any car at all.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Thorne. That will be all.” + +Over Mr. Lambert’s exultant carol rose a soft tumult of whispers. +“There goes the state’s story!” “Score 100 for the defense!” “Oh, boy, +did you get that? He’s fixed the time of the murder and run Sue and +Steve off the scene all in one move.” “The hand is quicker than the +eye.” “Look at Farr’s face; that boy’s got a mean eye——” + +“Silence!” sang Ben Potts. + +The prosecutor advanced to within six inches of the witness box, his +eyes contracted to pin points. “You assure us that you saw no car, Mr. +Thorne?” + +“I do.” + +“But you are not able to assure us that no car was there?” + +“Obviously, if a car was there, I should have seen it.” + +“Oh, no, believe me, that’s far from obvious! If a car had been parked +to the rear of the cottage on the little circular road, would you have +seen it?” + +“I should have seen its lights.” + +“And if its lights had been turned out?” + +“Then,” said Douglas Thorne slowly, “I should probably not have seen +it.” + +“You were not in the rear of the cottage at any time, were you?” + +“No.” + +“Then it is certain that you would not have seen it, isn’t it?” + +“I have told you that under those circumstances I do not believe I +should have seen it.” + +“If a car had been parked on the main driveway between the lodge gates +and the cottage, with its lights out, you would not have seen that +either, would you, Mr. Thorne?” + +“Possibly not.” + +“And you don’t for a moment expect to have twelve level-headed, +intelligent men believe that a pair of murderers would park their car +in a clearly visible position, with all its lights burning for any +passer-by to remark, while they accomplished their purpose?” + +“I object to that question!” panted Mr. Lambert. “I object! It calls +for a conclusion, Your Honour, and is highly——” + +“The question is overruled.” + +“Very well, Mr. Thorne; that will be all.” + +Mr. Lambert, who had been following these proceedings with a woebegone +countenance from which the recent traces of elation had been washed as +though by a bucket of unusually cold water, pulled himself together +valiantly. “Just one moment, Mr. Thorne; the fact is that you didn’t +see a car there, isn’t it?” + +“That is most certainly the fact.” + +“Thank you; that will be all.” + +“And the fact is,” remarked the grimly smiling prosecutor, “that it +might perfectly well have been there without your seeing it, isn’t +it?” + +“Yes, that also is the fact.” + +“That will be all. Call Miss Flora Biggs.” + +The prosecutor’s grim little smile still lingered. + +“Miss Flora Biggs!” + +Flora Biggs might have been a pretty girl ten years ago, before that +fatal heaviness had crept from sleazy silk ankles to the round chin +above the imitation pearls. Everything about Miss Biggs was +imitation—an imitation fluff of something that was meant to be fur on +the plush coat that was meant to be another kind of fur; an imitation +rose of a washed-out magenta trying to hide itself in the masquerading +collar; pearls the size of large bone buttons peeping out from too +golden hair; an arrow of false diamonds catching the folds of the +purple velvet toque that was not quite velvet; nervous fingers in +suède gloves that were rather a bad grade of cotton clutching at a +snakeskin bag of stenciled cloth—a poor, cheap, shoddy imitation of +what the well-dressed woman will wear. And yet in those small +insignificant features that should have belonged to a pretty girl, in +those round china-blue eyes, staring forlornly out of reddened rims, +there was something candid and touching and appealing. For out of +those reddened eyes peered the good shy little girl in the starched +white dress brought down to entertain the company—the good, shy little +girl whose name had been Florrie Biggs. And little Florrie Biggs had +been crying. + +“Where do you live, Miss Biggs?” + +“At 21 Maple Street, Rosemont.” The voice was hardly more than a +whisper. + +“Just a trifle louder, please; we all want to hear you. Did you know +Madeleine Bellamy, Miss Biggs?” + +The tears that had been lurking behind the round blue eyes welled over +abruptly, leaving little paths behind them down the heavily powdered +cheeks. “Yes, sir, I did.” + +“Intimately?” + +“Yes, sir. I guess so. Ever since I was ten. We went to school and +high school together; she was quite a little younger than me, but we +were best friends.” + +The tears rained down quietly and Miss Biggs brushed them impatiently +away with the clumsy gloved fingers. + +“You were fond of her?” + +“Yes, sir, I was awful fond of her.” + +“Did you see much of her during the years of 1916 and ’17?” + +“Yes, sir; I just lived three houses down the block. I used to see her +every day.” + +“Did you know Patrick Ives too?” + +“Yes, sir; I knew him pretty well.” + +“Was there much comment on his attention to your friend Madeleine +during the year 1916?” + +“Everyone knew they had a terrible case on each other,” said Miss +Biggs simply. + +“Were they supposed to be engaged?” + +“No, sir, I don’t know as they were; but everyone sort of thought they +would be.” + +“Their relations were freely discussed amongst their friends?” + +“They surely were.” + +“Did you ever discuss the affair with either Mr. Ives or Mrs. +Bellamy?” + +“Not ever with Pat, I didn’t, but Mimi used to talk about it quite a +lot.” + +“Do you remember what she said during the first conversation?” + +“Well, I think that the first time was when we had a terrible fight +about it.” At memory of that far-off quarrel Florrie’s blue eyes +flooded and brimmed over again. “We’d been on a picnic and Pat and +Mimi got separated from the rest of us, and by and by we went home +without them; and it was awfully late that night when they got back, +and I told Mimi that she ought to be carefuller how she went around +with a fellow like Pat Ives, and she got terrible mad and told me that +she knew what she was doing and she could look after herself, and that +I was just jealous and to mind my own business. Oh, she talked to me +something fierce.” + +Miss Biggs’s voice broke on a great sob, and suddenly the crowded +courtroom faded. . . . It was a hot July night in a village street and +the shrill, angry voices of the two girls filled the air. Once more +Mimi Dawson, insolent in her young beauty, was telling little Florrie +Biggs to keep her small snub nose out of other people’s affairs. All +the injured woe of that far-off night was in her sob. + +“Did she speak of him again?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, she certainly did. She used to speak of him most of the +time—after we made it up again, that is.” + +“Did she tell you whether they were expecting to be married?” + +“Not in just so many words, she didn’t, but she used to sort of +discuss it a lot, like whether it would be a good thing to do, and if +they’d be happy in Rosemont or whether New York wouldn’t work +better—you know, just kind of thinking it over.” + +Mr. Farr looked gravely sympathetic. “Exactly. Nothing more definite +than that?” + +“Well, I remember once she said that she’d do it in a minute if she +were sure that Pat had it in him to make good.” + +“And did you gather from that and other remarks of hers that it was +she who was holding back and Mr. Ives who was urging marriage?” + +“Oh, yes, sir,” said Miss Biggs, and added earnestly, “I think she +meant me to gather that.” + +There was a warm, friendly little ripple of amusement, at which she +lifted startled blue eyes. + +“Quite so. Now when Mr. Ives went to France, Miss Biggs, what did your +circle consider the state of affairs between them to be?” + +“We all thought they was sure to get married,” said Miss Biggs, and +added in a low voice, “Some of us thought maybe they was married +already.” + +“And just what made you think that?” + +Miss Biggs moved restlessly in her chair. “Oh, nothing special, I +guess; only they seemed so awfully gone on each other, and Pat was +always hiring flivvers to take her off to Redfield and—and places. +They never went much with the crowd any more, and lots of people were +getting married then—you know, war marriages——” The soft, hesitant +voice trailed off into silence. + +“I see. Just what was Mr. Ives’s reputation with your crowd, Miss +Biggs? Was he a steady, hard-working young man?” + +“He wasn’t so awfully hard-working, I guess.” + +The distressed murmur was not too low to reach Patrick Ives’s ears, +evidently; for a brief moment his white face was lit with the gayest +of smiles, impish and endearing. It faded, and the eyes that had been +suddenly blue faded, too, back to their frozen gray. + +“Was he popular?” + +“Oh, everyone liked him fine,” said Miss Biggs eagerly. “He was the +most popular fellow in Rosemont, I guess. He was a swell dancer, and +he certainly could play on the ukulele and skate and do perfectly +killing imitations and—and everything.” + +“Then why did you warn your friend against consorting with this +paragon, Miss Biggs?” + +“Sir?” + +“Why did you tell Mimi Dawson that she shouldn’t play around too much +with Pat Ives?” + +“Oh—oh, well, I guess, like she said, I was just foolish and it wasn’t +none of my business.” + +“You said, a ‘fellow like Pat Ives,’ Miss Biggs. What kind of a fellow +did you mean? The kind of a fellow who played the ukulele? Or did he +play something else?” + +“Well—well, he played cards some—poker, you know, and red dog +and—well, billiards, you know.” + +“He gambled, didn’t he?” + +“Now, Your Honour,” remarked Mr. Lambert heavily, “is this to be +permitted to go on indefinitely? I have deliberately refrained from +objecting to a most amazing line of questions——” + +“The Court is inclined to agree with you, Mr. Lambert. Is it in any +way relevant to the state’s case whether Mr. Ives played the ukulele +or the organ, Mr. Farr?” + +“It is quite essential to the state’s case to prove that Mr. Ives has +a reckless streak in his character that led directly to the murder of +Madeleine Bellamy, Your Honour. We contend that just as in those +months before the war in the village of Rosemont, so in the year of +1926, he was gambling with his own safety and happiness and honour, +and as in those days, with the happiness and honour and safety of a +woman as well—with the same woman with whom he was renewing the affair +broken off by a trick of fate nine years before. We contend——” + +“Yes. Well, the Court contends that your questioning along these lines +has been quite exhaustive enough, and that furthermore it doubts its +relevance to the present issue. You may proceed.” + +“Very well, Your Honour. . . . When Mr. Ives returned in 1919, were +you still seeing much of Miss Dawson?” + +“No, sir,” said Miss Biggs in a low voice. “Not any hardly.” + +“Why was that?” + +“Well, mostly it was because she was starting to go with another +crowd—the country-club crowd, you know. She was all the time with Mr. +Farwell.” + +“Exactly. Did you renew your intimacy at any later period?” + +“No, sir, not ever.” + +Once more the cotton fingers were busy with the treacherous tears, +falling for Mimi, lost so many years ago—lost again, most horribly, +after those unhappy years. + +“Thank you, Miss Biggs. That will be all. Cross-examine.” + +Mr. Lambert’s heavy face, turned to those drowned and terrified eyes, +was almost paternal. “You say that for many years there was no +intimacy between you and Mrs. Bellamy, Miss Biggs?” + +“No, sir, there wasn’t—not any.” + +“Mrs. Bellamy never took you into her confidence as to her feelings +toward Mr. Ives after her marriage?” + +“She never took me into her confidence about anything at all—no, sir.” + +“You never saw her after her marriage?” + +“Oh, yes, I did see her. I went there two or three times for tea.” + +“Everything was pleasant?” + +“She was very polite and pleasant—yes, sir.” + +“But there was no tendency to confide in you?” + +“I didn’t ask her to confide in me,” said Miss Biggs. “I didn’t ask +her for anything at all—not anything.” + +“But if there had been anything to confide, it would have been quite +natural to confide in you—girls generally confide in their best +friend, don’t they?” + +“I guess so.” + +“And as far as you know, there were no guilty relations between Mrs. +Bellamy and Mr. Ives at the time of her death?” + +“I didn’t know even whether she saw Mr. Ives,” said Florrie Biggs. + +Mr. Lambert beamed gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Biggs. That’s all.” + +“Just one moment more, please.” The prosecutor, too, was looking as +paternal as was possible under the rather severe limitations of his +saturnine countenance. “Mr. Lambert was just asking you if it would +have been natural for her to confide in you, as girls generally +confide in their best friends. At the time of this murder, and for +many years previous, you weren’t Mrs. Bellamy’s best friend, were you, +Miss Biggs?” + +“No, sir, I guess I wasn’t.” + +“There was very little affection and intimacy between you, wasn’t +there?” + +“I don’t know what you call between us,” said Miss. Biggs, and the +pretty, common, swollen face was suddenly invested with dignity and +beauty. “I loved her better than anyone I knew. She was the only best +friend I ever had—ever.” + +And swept by the hunger in that quiet and humble voice, the courtroom +was suddenly empty of everyone but two little girls, warm cheeked, +bright eyed, gingham clad—a sleek pig-tailed head and a froth of +bright curls locked together over an inkstained desk. Best +friends—four scuffed feet flying down the twilight street on roller +skates—two mittened paws clutching each other under the shaggy robe of +the bell-hung sleigh—a slim arm around a chubby waist on the hay +cart—decorous, mischievous eyes meeting over the rims of the frosted +glasses of sarsaparilla while brown-stockinged legs swung free of the +tall drug-store stools—a shrill voice calling down the street in the +sweet-scented dusk, “Yoo-hoo, Mimi! Mimi, c’mon out and play.” Mimi, +Mimi, lying so still with red on your white lace dress, come on out +and—— + +“Thank you, Miss Biggs: that’s all.” + +She stumbled a little on the step of the witness box, brushed once +more at her eyes with impatient fingers and was gone. + +“Call Mrs. Daniel Ives.” + +“Mrs. Daniel Ives!” + +All through the Court went that quickening thrill of interest. A +little old lady was moving with delicate precision down the far aisle +to the witness box; the red-headed girl glanced quickly from her to +the corner where Patrick Ives was sitting. He had half risen from his +seat and was watching her progress with a passion of protest on his +haggard young face. Well, even the prosecutor said that this reckless +young man had been a good son, and it could hardly be a pleasant sight +for the worst of sons to see his mother moving steadily toward that +place of inquisition, and to realize that it was his folly that had +sent her there. He sat down abruptly, turning his face toward the blue +autumnal sky outside the window, against which the bare boughs of the +tree spread like black lace. The circles under his eyes looked darker +than ever. + +As quietly as though it were a daily practice, Mrs. Ives was raising a +neat black-gloved hand to take the oath and setting a daintily shod +foot on the step of the witness box. She seated herself unhurriedly, +opened the black fur collar at her throat, folded her hands on the +edge of the box, and lifted a pair of dark blue eyes, bravely serene, +to the shrewd coolness of the prosecutor. There was just a glimpse of +silver hair under the old-fashioned black toque with its wisp of lace +and round jet pins; there was the faintest touch of pink in her cheeks +and a small smile on her lips, shy and gracious. The kind of mother, +decided the red-headed girl, that you would invent, if you were very +talented. + +“Mrs. Ives, you are the mother of Patrick Ives, are you not?” + +“I am.” + +The gentle voice was as clear and true as a little bell. + +“You heard Miss Biggs’s testimony?” + +“Oh, yes; my hearing is still excellent.” The small smile deepened for +a moment to friendly amusement. + +“Were you aware of the state of affairs between Madeleine Bellamy and +your son at the time that war broke out?” + +“I was aware that he was paying her very marked attention, naturally, +but I was most certainly not aware that they were seriously +considering marriage. Both of them seemed absolute babies to me, of +course.” + +“Had your son confided in you his intentions on the subject?” + +“I believe that if he had had any such intentions he would have; but +no, he had not.” + +“You were entirely in his confidence?” + +“I hope so. I believe so.” The deep blue eyes hovered compassionately +over the averted face strained toward the window, and then moved +tranquilly back to meet the prosecutor’s. + +“When this affair with Mrs. Bellamy was renewed in 1926, did he +confide it to you?” + +“Oh, no.” + +“Showing thereby that you were not entirely in his confidence, Mrs. +Ives?” + +“Or showing perhaps that there was nothing to confide,” said Mrs. +Daniel Ives gently. + +The prosecutor jerked his head irritably. “The state is in possession +of an abundance of material to prove that there was everything to +confide, I assure you, Mrs. Ives. However, it is not my intention to +make this any more difficult for you than is strictly necessary. How +long ago did you come to Rosemont?” + +“About fifteen years ago.” + +“You were a widow and obliged to support yourself?” + +“No, that’s hardly accurate. I was not supporting myself entirely and +I was not a widow.” The pale roses deepened a little under the black +toque, but the voice was a trifle clearer than before. + +“You mean that at the time you came to Rosemont your husband was still +living?” The prosecutor made no attempt to disguise the astonishment +in his voice. + +“I do not know whether he was living or not. He had left me, you see, +almost seventeen years before I came to Rosemont. I learned three +years ago that he was dead, but not when he died.” + +“Mrs. Ives, I do not wish to dwell on a subject that must be painful +to you, but I would like to get this straight. Were you divorced?” + +“It is not at all painful to me,” said Patrick Ives’s mother gently, +her small gloved hands wrung tightly together on the edge of the +witness box. “It happened many years ago, and my life since has been +full of so many things. We were not divorced. My husband was younger +than I, and our marriage was not happy. He left me for a much younger +woman.” + +“It was believed in Rosemont that you were a widow, was it not?” + +“Everyone in Rosemont believed me to be a widow except Pat, who had +known the truth since he was quite a little boy. It was foolish of me +not to tell the truth, perhaps, but I had a great distaste for pity.” +She smiled again, graciously, at the prosecutor. “False pride was +about the only luxury that I indulged in, in those days.” + +“You say that you were supporting both your son and yourself?” + +“No. Pat was doing any little jobs that he could get, as he had done +since he sold papers on the corner when he was six years old.” For a +moment the smile faded and she eyed the prosecutor steadfastly, almost +sternly, as though daring him to challenge that statement, and for a +moment it looked as though he were about to do exactly that, when +abruptly he veered. + +“Were you in the garden the night of the nineteenth of June, Mrs. +Ives?” + +“In the rose garden—yes.” + +“Did you see Miss Page on her way to the sand pile?” + +“I believe that I did, although I have nothing that particularly fixes +it in my mind.” + +“Did you see your daughter-in-law?” + +“Yes.” + +For a moment the faintest shadow passed over her face—a shadow of +doubt, of hesitancy. Her glance went past the prosecutor to the place +where her daughter-in-law was sitting, quietly attentive, and briefly, +profoundly, their eyes met. The shadow passed. + +“Which way was she going?” + +“She was going past the rose garden toward the back gate of the +house.” + +“Just one moment, Mrs. Ives. What is the distance between Mr. Ives’s +house and Orchards?” + +“Well, that depends on how you approach it. By road it must be almost +two miles, but if you use the little footpath that cuts across the +meadows north of the house, it can’t be less than a mile.” + +“Do you know where that path comes out?” + +“I believe that it comes out by a little summerhouse or playhouse on +the Thorne estate.” + +“Far from the gardener’s cottage?” + +“Oh, no—Miss Page said that it was quite near it, I think. She had +been using it to take the children over to the playhouse on several +occasions—and as it was quite without Mrs. Ives’s knowledge, I spoke +to my son about it.” + +“Did other members of the household make use of this path?” + +“Not to my knowledge.” + +“Now, Mrs. Ives, when Mrs. Patrick Ives passed you in the garden, did +she speak to you?” + +“Yes.” + +“Just what did she say?” + +“As nearly as I can remember, she said that she was going to the +movies with the Conroys, and that she wasn’t sure whether she would be +back before I got to bed. She added that Pat was going to play poker.” + +“Nothing more?” + +“That is all that I remember.” + +“Did you see her again that night?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you tell us when?” + +“I saw her twice. Not more than two or three minutes after she passed +me in the rose garden, she came back and went toward the house, almost +running. I was at the far end of the garden by then, working on some +trellises, and I didn’t speak to her. She seemed in a great hurry, and +I thought that she had probably forgotten something—her bag or a scarf +for her hair, perhaps. She wasn’t wearing any hat. A minute or so +later she came out of the house and ran back down the path to the back +gate.” + +“Was she wearing a scarf on her hair?” + +“No.” + +“Had she a bag?” + +“I don’t remember seeing a bag, but she might well have had one.” + +“She did not speak to you?” + +“No.” + +“And those were the two times that you refer to?” + +“Oh, no,” corrected Mrs. Ives gently. “I thought of those occasions as +forming one time. I saw her again, a good deal later in the evening.” + +Once more the courtroom was filled with that strange stir—the movement +of hundreds of bodies moving an inch nearer to the edges of chairs. + +“Good Lord!” murmured the reporter devoutly. “She’s going to give the +girl an alibi! Look out, you old fox!” + +The prosecutor, thus disrespectfully and inaudibly adjured, moved +boldly forward. “At what time did you see your daughter-in-law, Mrs. +Ives?” + +“You’ve got to grant him nerve,” continued the reporter, unabashed. +“Or probably he’s betting that the old lady wouldn’t perjure herself +even to save her son’s wife. I’d rather bet it myself.” + +Mrs. Ives, who had been sitting silently studying her linked fingers, +raised an untroubled countenance to the prosecutor’s, but for the +first time she spoke as though she were weighing her words: “It is +difficult for me to give you the exact time, as I did not look at a +clock. I had been in bed for quite a little while, however, and had +turned out the light. I should say, roughly, that it might have been +half-past ten. It was quite dark when I came into the house myself, I +remember, and I believe that it stayed light at that time until long +after nine.” + +“It was your habit to work in the garden until it was dark?” + +“Yes; gardening is both my recreation and occupation.” Mrs. Ives’s +tranquil eyes smiled at the prosecutor as though she expected to find +in him an understanding soul. “Those hours after dinner were a great +happiness to me, and often after it was too dark for any further work +I would prolong them by sitting on a bench in the rose arbour and +thinking over work well done. It was generally dark before I came in.” + +“And was on the night of the nineteenth of June?” + +“Oh, yes; it had been dark for some time.” + +“Did you go straight to bed when you came in?” + +“No; I stopped for a moment in the flower room to put away the basket +with my tools and to tidy up a bit. Gardening is a grubby business.” +Again that delicate, friendly smile. “Just as I was coming out I saw +Melanie, the waitress, turning out the lights in the living room, and +I remember thinking that it must be ten o’clock, as that was the time +that she usually did it if the family were not at home. Then I went on +up to bed. It wasn’t very long after I had turned out the light that I +heard the front door close and thought, ‘That must be Sue.’” + +“It didn’t occur to you that it might be your son?” + +“Oh, no; Pat never got in before twelve if he was playing cards.” + +“You say that you saw Mrs. Ives. Did she come straight up to your +room?” + +“No; about five minutes after I heard the door close, I imagine. My +room is in the left wing of the house, you understand, and I always +leave my door a little ajar. Sue came to the door and asked in a +whisper, ‘Are you awake, Mother?’ I said that I was and she came in, +saying, ‘I brought you your fruit; I’ll just put it on the stand.’” + +“Was she in the habit of doing that?” + +“No, not exactly in the habit—that was Pat’s task, but Sue is the most +thoughtful child alive, and she had remembered that Pat wasn’t there.” +Once more her eyes, loving and untroubled, smiled into Sue’s. + +“Did you turn on the light, Mrs. Ives?” + +“No.” + +“Weren’t you going to take the fruit?” + +“Oh, no; I am not a very good sleeper, and I saved the fruit for the +small hours of the morning.” + +“You were not able to see Mrs. Ives clearly, in that case?” + +“I could see her quite clearly; there was a very bright light in the +hall.” + +“You noticed nothing extraordinary in her appearance?” + +“Nothing whatever.” + +“She was wearing the clothes that you had last seen her in?” + +“She was wearing the dress, but she had taken off the coat, I +believe.” + +“Ah-h!” sighed the courtroom under its breath. + +“What kind of a coat, Mrs. Ives?” + +“A little cream-coloured flannel coat.” Not by the flicker of an +eyelash did Mrs. Ives admit the sinister significance of that sigh. + +“Did she say anything further?” + +“Yes. I asked her whether she had enjoyed the movie, and she said that +she had not gone to Rosemont, as she had met Stephen Bellamy in his +car on her way to the Conroys’ and he had given her a lift. He told +her that the picture in Rosemont was an old one that they had both +seen, and suggested that they drive over by the River Road and see +what was running in Lakedale. When they got there they discovered that +they had seen that film, too, so they drove around a little longer and +then came home.” + +“That was all that she said?” + +“She wished me sweet dreams, I believe, and kissed me good-night.” + +Under the gentle directness of her gaze, the prosecutor’s face +hardened. “Where was the fruit that you speak of usually kept, Mrs. +Ives?” + +“I believe that it was kept in a small refrigerator in the pantry.” + +“Was there a sink in that pantry?” + +“Yes.” + +The prosecutor advanced deliberately toward the witness box, lowering +his voice to a strangely menacing pitch: “Mrs. Ives, during the space +that elapsed between the closing of the front door and Mrs. Patrick +Ives’s appearance in your bedroom, there would have been ample time +for her to have washed her hands at that sink, would there not?” + +“Oh, surely.” + +There was not even a second’s hesitation in that swift reply, not a +second’s cloud over the lifted, slightly wondering face; but the +little cold wind moved again through the courtroom. Over the clear, +unfaltering syllables there was the sound of running water—of water +that ran red, as Sue, the thoughtful, cleansed the hands that were to +bear the fruit for the waiting mother. + +“That will be all, Mrs. Ives,” said the prosecutor. “Cross-examine.” + +She turned her face quietly toward Lambert’s ruddy one. + +“I’ll keep you only a minute, Mrs. Ives.” The rotund voice was +softened to one of friendliest concern. “Mrs. Ives seemed quite +herself when she came into the room?” + +“Absolutely herself.” + +“No undue agitation?” + +“She was not agitated in the slightest.” + +“Mr. Farr has asked you whether your son ever confided to you that he +was having an affair with Mrs. Bellamy. I ask you whether he ever +intimated that he was unhappy?” + +“Not ever.” + +“Did Mrs. Ives?” + +“Never.” + +“What was your impression as to their relations?” + +“I thought——” For the first time the clear voice faltered, broke. She +forced it back to steadiness relentlessly. “I thought that they were +the happiest people that ever lived,” said Patrick Ives’s mother. + +“Thank you, Mrs. Ives,” said Mr. Lambert gently. “That will be all.” + +“Want me to bring back a sandwich?” inquired the reporter hospitably, +gathering up his notes. + +“Please,” said the red-headed girl meekly. + +“Sure you don’t want to trail along? That drug store really isn’t half +bad.” + +“I’m always afraid that something might happen to me and that I +mightn’t get back,” explained the red-headed girl. “Like getting run +over, or arrested or kidnapped or something. . . . One with lettuce in +it, please.” + +She sat contemplating the remaining occupants of the press seats about +her with fascinated eyes. Evidently others were agitated by the same +fears that haunted her. At any rate, three or four dozen were still +clinging to their places, reading or writing or talking with impartial +animation. They looked much nicer and less impersonal scattered about +like that, but they still made her feel dreadfully shy and +incompetent. They all knew one another so well; they were so casual +and self-contained. Hurrying through the corridors, their ribald, +salty banter broke over her in waves, leaving her drowned and forlorn. + +She liked them awfully—that lanky, middle-aged man with the shrewd, +sensitive face, jabbering away with the opulent-looking young creature +in the sealskin cap and cloak; that Louisville reporter with her thin +pretty face and little one-sided smile; that stocky youngster with the +white teeth and the enormous vocabulary and the plaid necklace; that +really beautiful girl who looked like an Italian opera singer and +swore like a pirate, and arrived every day exactly an hour late in a +flame-coloured blouse up to her chin and a little black helmet down to +her eyebrows. + +“Here’s your sandwich,” said the reporter—“two of ’em, just to show my +heart’s in the right place. The poisonous-looking pink one is currant +jelly and the healthy-looking green one is lettuce. That’s what I call +a balanced ration! Fall to!” + +The red-headed girl fell to obediently and gratefully. + +“I do like the way newspaper people look,” she said when only a few +crumbs of the balanced ration remained. + +“Ten thousand thanks,” said the newspaper man. “Myself, I do like the +way lady authoresses look.” + +“I mean I like them because they look so—so awfully alive,” explained +the red-headed girl sedately, keeping her eyes on the girl in the +flame-coloured blouse lest the cocky young man beside her should read +the unladylike interest that he roused in her. + +“Ah, well, in that case, not more than one thousand thanks,” said the +reporter—“and those somewhat tempered. Look alive, do we? There’s a +glowing tribute for you! I trust that you’ll be profoundly ashamed of +yourself when I inform you that I meant nothing of the kind when I +extolled the appearance of lady authoresses. Dead or alive, I like the +way their hair grows over their ears, and their discreet use of +dimples, and the useless length of their eyelashes. Meditate on that +for a while!” + +The red-headed girl meditated, while both her colour and her dimples +deepened. At the end of her meditations she inquired politely, “Is it +true that Mr. Bellamy’s counsel broke his leg?” + +“Couldn’t be truer. Fell down the Subway stairs at eleven-forty-five +last night and is safe in the hospital this morning. Lambert’s taking +over Bellamy’s defense; he and those two important, worried-looking +kids who sit beside him at the desk down there reading great +big enormous law books and are assistant counsel—whatever that +means. . . . Ah, here’s Ben Potts! Fine fellow, Ben. . . . We’re off!” + +“Mr. Elliot Farwell!” + +A thickset, broad-shouldered individual, with hair as slick as oiled +patent leather, puffy eyes, and overprominent blue jowls, moved +heavily toward the witness box. An overgaudy tie that looked as though +it came from the ten-cent store and had actually come from France, a +waistcoat that made you think vaguely of checks, though it was quite +guiltless of them; a handkerchief with an orange-and-green monogram +ramping across one corner—the stuff of which con men and race-track +touts and ham actors and men about town are made. The red-headed girl +eyed him severely. Thus she was wont to regard his little brother and +big brother at the night clubs, as they leaned conqueringly across +little tables, offering heavily engraved flasks to limp chits clad in +shoulder straps and chiffon handkerchiefs. + +“Mr. Farwell, where were you on the afternoon of the nineteenth of +June at about five o’clock?” + +“At the Rosemont Country Club.” + +Not a pleasant voice at all, Mr. Farwell’s; a heavy, sullen voice, +thickened and coarsened with some disreputable alchemy. + +“What were you doing?” + +“I was just hanging around after golf, having a couple of drinks.” + +“Did you see Mrs. Patrick Ives?” + +“Yes.” + +“Talk with her?” + +“Yes.” + +“Will you give us the substance of your conversation?” + +Mr. Farwell shifted his bulk uneasily in his chair. “How do you +mean—the substance of it?” + +“Just outline what you said to Mrs. Ives.” + +“Well, I told her——” The heavy voice lumbered to silence. “Do I have +to answer that?” + +“Certainly, Mr. Farwell.” Judge Carver’s voice was edged with +impatience. + +“I told her that she’d better keep an eye on her husband,” blurted Mr. +Farwell desperately. + +“Did you give her any reason for doing that?” + +“Of course I gave her a reason.” + +“Well, just give it to us, too, will you?” + +“I told her that he was making a fool of himself with Mimi.” + +“Nothing more specific than that?” + +“Well, I told her that they were meeting each other secretly.” + +“Where?” + +“At the gardener’s cottage at Orchards.” Those who were near enough +could see the little beads of sweat on Mr. Farwell’s forehead. + +“How did you know that?” + +“Orsini told me.” + +“And who is Orsini?” + +“He’s the Bellamys’ man of all work—tends to the garden and furnace +and all that kind of thing.” + +“Well, just how did Orsini come to tell you about this, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Because I’d twice seen Mrs. Bellamy take the Perrytown bus, alone, +and I told Orsini that I’d give him ten dollars if he found out for me +where she was going. He said he didn’t need to find out—he knew.” + +“Did he tell you how he knew?” + +“Yes; he knew because it was he that loaned her the key to the +cottage. She’d found out that he had the key, and she told him some +cock-and-bull story about wanting to practise on the cottage piano +that the gardener had there, and he used to loan it to her whenever +she asked for it, and generally she’d forget to give it back to him +till the next day.” + +“How did he happen to have it?” + +“The Thornes’ gardener was a friend of his, and he left it with Orsini +when he went off on his vacation to Italy, because he’d left some kind +of homebrew down in the cellar, and he wanted Orsini to keep an eye on +it.” + +“Did you know when she had last borrowed it?” + +“Yes; she’d borrowed it round noon on the nineteenth. I went by her +house a little before one to see if she would take lunch with me at +the club, and Orsini was fixing up the gate in the picket fence. He +told me that Mimi had left about half an hour ago in their car, asking +for the key, as she said she wanted to go to the cottage to practise. +So I went after her.” + +“To the gardener’s cottage?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was she there?” + +“No.” + +“How did you know that she wasn’t there, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Because there wasn’t any car, nor any music either.” + +There was a surly defiance in Farwell’s tone that the prosecutor +blandly ignored. + +“Did you go into the cottage?” + +“No; it was locked.” + +“What did you do then?” + +“It started to rain while I was standing on the porch and I stopped +and tossed up a coin as to whether to go on to the club, hoping it +would clear up enough for golf, or to go back to the bungalow. It came +tails, so I waited for a minute or so and went on to the club.” + +“Whom did you find there?” + +“Mrs. Bellamy, Dick Burgoyne, the Conroys, the Dallases, Sue Ives—all +the crowd. It cleared up after lunch, and most of us went off to the +links. Sue made up a foursome with the Conroys and Steve Bellamy, who +turned up on the two o’clock train. Mimi played a round with Burgoyne, +and I went with George Dallas. We all got round within a few minutes +of each other and sat around, getting drinks and gabbing.” + +“Was it then that you told Mrs. Ives about this affair of her +husband’s?” + +“It was around that time.” + +“Was Mr. Ives there?” + +“No; he’d telephoned that he couldn’t get out till dinner-time.” + +“Just what made you tell Mrs. Ives this story, Mr. Farwell?” + +Elliot Farwell’s heavy jowls became slightly more prominent. “Well, +I’d had a drink too many, I guess, and I was good and fed up with the +whole thing. I thought Sue was a peach, and it made me sick to see +what Ives was getting away with.” + +“What did Mrs. Ives say?” + +“She said that I was out of my head, and I told her that I’d bet her a +thousand dollars to five cents that Mimi and Pat would tell some fairy +stories about what they were doing that evening and meet at the +cottage. And I told her that I’d waited behind the bushes at the lodge +gates the week before when Sue was in New York, and seen both of them +go up the drive—Mimi on foot and Ives ten minutes later in the car. +That worried her; she wasn’t sure how sober I was, but she cut out +telling me I was crazy.” + +He paused and the prosecutor lifted an impatient voice. “Then what, +Mr. Farwell?” + +“Well, a little while after that George Dallas came over and said that +if Sue wanted him to, he’d stop on the way home and show her how to +make the new cocktail that he’d been telling her about, so that she +could surprise Pat with it at dinner. And she said all right, and we +all piled into our cars and headed for her place—all except Mimi and +Bellamy. They’d left a few minutes before, because they had dinner +early.” + +“Did you have any further conversation with Mrs. Ives on the subject?” + +“Not anything that you’d call conversation. There was a whole crew +jabbering around there at her place.” + +“Well, did she mention it again?” + +“Oh, well, she came up to me just when I was going—I was looking +around for my hat in the hall—and she said, ‘Elliot, don’t tell anyone +else that you’ve told me about this, will you?’ And I said, ‘All +right.’ And she said, ‘Promise. I don’t want it to get back to Pat +that I know until I decide what to do.’ And so I said sure I’d +promise. And then I cleared out.” + +In the hushed courtroom his voice sounded ugly and defiant, but he +kept his face turned stubbornly away from Sue Ives’s clear attentive +eyes, which never once had left it, and which widened a little now, +gravely ironic, as the man who had promised not to tell sullenly broke +that promise. + +“Oh,” whispered the red-headed girl fiercely—“oh, the cad! He’s trying +to make it look as though she did it—as though she meant to do it even +then.” + +“Oh, come on, now!” remonstrated the reporter judicially. “Give the +poor devil his due! After all, he’s on oath, and the prosecutor’s +digging into him with a pickax and spade. Here, look out, or we’ll +miss something!” + +“And after you and Mr. Burgoyne had dined, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Well, I had a rotten headache, so I decided that I wouldn’t go over +to Dallases’ for the poker game after all, but that I’d turn in and +read a detective story that I’d brought out with me. I called up +George to ask if he’d have enough without me, and he said yes, so I +decided that I’d call it a night and went up to my bedroom.” + +“Did you see Mr. Burgoyne before he left?” + +“Yes, he stuck his head in the door just as I was putting on my +bathrobe and asked if there was anything he could do, and I said +nothing but tell George I was sorry.” + +“Have you any idea what time that was?” + +“It must have been round quarter to nine; the party was to start about +nine, and he was walking.” + +“Did you read for long after he left?” + +“Yes, I read right along; but about half-past nine I got up for a +cigarette, and I couldn’t find a match, so I started hunting through +the pockets of the golf suit I’d been wearing, for my lighter. It +wasn’t there. I remembered that I’d used it on the way over to the +cottage—I kept it in my pocket with my loose change—and all of a +sudden it came back to me that I’d pulled a handkerchief out of that +pocket when I was getting that coin to toss up on the porch and I’d +thought I heard something drop, and looked around a little, but I +didn’t pay much attention to it, because I thought probably it was +just some change that had rolled off the porch. I realized then that +it must have been the lighter, and I was sore as the devil.” + +“Will you tell us why, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Because I didn’t want anyone to know I’d been hanging round the +cottage, and the lighter was marked on the inside.” + +“Marked with your name?” + +“Marked with an inscription—Elliot, from Mimi, Christmas, 1918.” + +The coarse voice was suddenly shaken, the coarse face suddenly +pale—Elliot from Mimi, Christmas, 1918. + +“What did you do after you missed the lighter, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Well, I cursed myself good and plenty and went on a hunt for matches +downstairs. There wasn’t one in the whole darned place, and I was too +lazy to get into my clothes again, so I called Dick at the Dallases’ +and asked him to be sure to bring some home with him.” + +“What time did you telephone?” + +“I didn’t look at the time. It was half-past nine when I started to +look for the matches. Quarter to ten—ten minutes to, maybe.” + +“Did you go back to bed?” + +“Yes; but I went on reading for quite a while. I’d dozed off by the +time Dick came in, though the light was still burning.” + +“What time was that?” + +“A little after half-past eleven.” + +The prosecutor stood eyeing the heavy countenance before him +speculatively for a moment, and then, with a quick shake of his +narrow, sleek, finely poised head, took his decision. “Mr. Farwell, +when did you first tell the story that you have been telling us?” + +“On June twenty-first.” + +“Where did you tell it?” + +“In your office.” + +“At whose request?” + +“At——” + +Mr. Lambert, who had been sitting twitching in his chair, emitted a +roar of protest as he bounded to his feet that effectually drowned out +any information Mr. Farwell was about to impart. “I object, Your +Honour! I object! What does it matter whether this witness told his +story in the prosecutor’s office or the Metropolitan Opera House? The +point is that he’s telling it here, and anything else is deliberately +beside the mark. I——” + +“The Court is inclined to agree with you, Mr. Lambert. What is the +object of establishing when, where, and why Mr. Farwell told this +story, Mr. Farr?” + +“Because, Your Honour, it is entirely owing to the insistence of the +state that Mr. Farwell is at present making a series of admissions +that if misinterpreted by the jury might be highly prejudicial to Mr. +Farwell. There is not one chance in a hundred that the defense would +have brought out under cross-examination the fact that Mr. Farwell was +at the gardener’s cottage on the nineteenth of June—a fact that I have +deliberately elicited in my zeal to set all the available facts before +the jury. But in common fairness to Mr. Farwell, I think that I should +be permitted to bring out the circumstances under which I obtained +this information.” + +Judge Carver paraded his fine, keen old eyes meditatively from the +ruddy full moon of Mr. Lambert’s countenance to the black-and-white +etching of the prosecutor’s, cold as ice, for all the fever of +intensity behind it; on farther still to the bull-necked and +blue-jowled occupant of the witness box. There was a faint trace of +distaste in their depths as they returned to the prosecutor. Perhaps +it was that distaste that swung back the pendulum. Judge Carver had +the reputation of being as fair as he was hard. + +“Very well, Mr. Farr. The Court sees no impropriety in having you +state those circumstances as briefly as possible.” + +“May I have an objection to that, Your Honour?” Lambert’s face had +deepened to a fine claret. + +“Certainly.” + +“On the morning of the twenty-first of June,” said Mr. Farr, “I asked +Mr. Farwell to come to my office. When he arrived I told him that we +had information in our hands that definitely connected him with this +atrocious crime, and that I sincerely advised him to make a clean +breast of all his movements. He proceeded to do so promptly, and told +me exactly the same story that he has told you. It came, frankly, as a +surprise to me, but it in no way altered or modified the state’s case. +I therefore decided to put Mr. Farwell on the stand in order to let +you have all the facts.” + +“Was the information that you possessed connecting Mr. Farwell with +the crime the cigarette lighter, Mr. Farr?” inquired Judge Carver +gravely. + +“No, Your Honour; it was Mrs. Ives’s telephone conversation with +Stephen Bellamy, asking whether Elliot had not told him anything. +There was no other Elliot in Mrs. Ives’s circle of acquaintances.” + +“Is the lighter in the possession of the state at present?” + +“No, Your Honour,” remarked the prosecutor blandly. “The state’s case +would be considerably simplified if it were.” + +His eye rested, fugitive but penetrating, on Mr. Lambert’s heated +countenance. + +“That is all that you desire to state, Mr. Farr?” + +“Yes, Your Honour. No further questions, Mr. Farwell. Cross-examine.” + +“What kind of a cigarette lighter was this, Mr. Farwell?” There was an +ominous rumble in Lambert’s voice. + +“A little black enamel and silver thing that you could light with one +hand. They brought a lot of them over from England in ’17 and ’18.” + +“Had anyone ever suggested to you that this lighter might possibly +prove a dangerous weapon against you if it fell into the hands of the +defense?” inquired Mr. Lambert, in what were obviously intended to be +silken tones. + +“No,” replied Mr. Farwell belligerently; “no one ever told me anything +of the kind.” + +Mr. Farr permitted himself a fleeting and ironic smile in the +direction of his adversary before he turned a countenance lit with +splendid indignation in the direction of the jury. + +“Mr. Farwell, you told the prosecutor that you had had a couple of +drinks before you confided this story about her husband to Mrs. Ives. +Was that accurate, or had you had more?” + +“I’d had three or four, maybe—I don’t remember.” + +“Three or four after you came off the links?” + +“Well, what of it?” Farwell’s jaw was jutting dangerously. + +“Be good enough to answer my question, Mr. Farwell.” + +“All right, three or four after I came off the links.” + +“And three or four before you started?” + +“I don’t remember how many; we all had something at lunch.” + +“You had had too many, hadn’t you, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Too many for what?” + +“Too many for Mimi Bellamy’s good, let us say.” Mr. Lambert caught a +menacing movement from the chair occupied by the prosecutor and +hurried on: “Would you have been quite so explicit to Mrs. Ives if you +had not had those drinks?” + +“I don’t know whether I would or not.” The little beads of sweat on +the low forehead were suddenly larger. “I’d been thinking for quite a +while that she ought to know what was going on.” + +“I see. And just what did you think was to be gained by her +knowledge?” + +“I thought she’d put a stop to it.” + +“Put a stop to it with a knife, Mr. Farwell?” inquired Mr. Lambert, +ferociously genial. + +And suddenly there leaped from the dull eyes before him a flame of +such raw agony that Mr. Lambert took a hasty and prudent step +backward. + +“What do you take me for? I thought she’d make him cut it out.” + +“And it was absolutely essential to you that he should cut it out, +wasn’t it, Mr. Farwell?” + +“What?” + +“You were endeavoring to persuade Mrs. Bellamy to divorce Mr. Bellamy +and marry you, weren’t you, Mr. Farwell?” + +Mr. Farwell sat glaring dumbly at his tormentor out of those strange +eyes. + +“Weren’t you?” + +“Yes.” As baldly as though Mr. Farwell were stating that he had tried +to get her to play a game of bridge. + +“How long had it been since your affection for her had revived?” + +“It hadn’t revived. My affection for her, if that’s what you want to +call it, hadn’t ever stopped.” + +“Oh, I see. And at the time of the murder you were not convinced that +it was hopeless?” + +“No.” + +“I see. But you were a good deal disturbed over this affair with Mr. +Ives, weren’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“And when you went home you had a few more drinks just to celebrate +the fact that you’d fixed everything up, didn’t you?” + +“I had another drink or so.” + +“And when you went up to bed with the detective story you took a full +bottle of whisky with you, didn’t you?” + +“I guess so.” + +“And it was three quarters empty the next morning, wasn’t it?” + +“How do I know?” + +“Wasn’t it found beside your bed almost empty next morning, Mr. +Farwell?” + +“I don’t know. I’d taken a good deal of it.” + +“Mr. Farwell, are you sure that you didn’t find that you had lost that +cigarette lighter before nine-thirty—at a little after nine, say?” + +“No, I told you that it was nine-thirty.” + +“What makes you so sure?” + +“I looked at my watch.” + +“And just why did you do that?” + +“Because I wanted to know the time.” + +“Why?” + +“I don’t know—I just wanted to know.” + +“It was very convenient that it happened to be just nine-thirty, +wasn’t it?” + +“I don’t know what you mean; it wasn’t convenient at all, if it comes +to that.” + +“You don’t? And you don’t see why it was convenient that you happened +to call up the Dallas house at about ten minutes to ten, assuring them +thereby that you were safe at home in your pajamas?” + +“No, I don’t.” + +“You have a Filipino boy who works for you, haven’t you, Mr. Farwell?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was he in the house after Mr. Burgoyne went on to the poker party?” + +“No; he goes home after he finishes the dinner things—around half-past +eight usually.” + +“So you were absolutely alone in the house?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Your car was outside, wasn’t it?” + +“It was in the garage.” + +“It never entered your head when you missed that lighter, the loss of +which concerned you so deeply, to get into that automobile and take +the five- or ten-minute drive to Orchards to recover it?” + +“It certainly didn’t.” + +“You didn’t do anything of the kind?” + +“Look here, I’ve already told you about twenty times that I didn’t, +haven’t I?” Mr. Farwell’s voice was straining perilously at the leash. + +“I didn’t remember that I’d asked you that before. At what time did +you first hear of this tragedy, Mr. Farwell?” + +“You mean the—murder?” + +“Naturally.” + +Once more the dull eyes were lit by that strange flare of stupefied +agony. “At about twelve o’clock Sunday morning, I guess—or half-past +eleven—I don’t know—sometime late that morning. George Dallas +telephoned me. I was still half asleep.” + +“What did you do?” + +“Do? I don’t know what I did. It knocked me cold.” + +Mr. Lambert suddenly thrust his beaming countenance into the stolid +mask before him. “However cold it might have knocked you, Mr. Farwell, +don’t you remember that within three quarters of an hour of the time +that you received this news you locked yourself in the library and +tried to blow your brains out?” + +“Yes,” said Elliot Farwell, “I remember that.” + +“You didn’t succeed because your friend Richard Burgoyne had +previously emptied the pistol?” + +“Correct.” + +“And your Filipino boy, looking for you to announce lunch, noticed you +through the window and set up the alarm, didn’t he?” + +“So I understand.” + +“What did you say to Mr. Burgoyne when he forced his way into the +library, Mr. Farwell?” + +“I don’t remember.” + +“You don’t remember that you said, ‘Keep your hands off me, Dick; +after what I’ve done, there’s no way out but this’?” + +“No, I don’t remember it, but I probably said it. I don’t remember +what I said.” + +“What explanation do you offer for that remark, Mr. Farwell?” + +“I’m not offering any explanations; if I said it, I said it. What +difference does it make what I meant?” + +“It makes quite a difference, I assure you. You have no explanation to +offer?” + +“No.” + +“Mr. Farwell, for the last time I ask you whether you were not at the +gardener’s cottage at Orchards on the night of June nineteenth?” + +“No.” + +“At about nine-thirty?” + +“No.” + +Mr. Lambert, the ruddy moon of his countenance suddenly alive with +malice, shot his question viciously into the tortured mask: “It was +not your laugh that Mr. Thorne heard coming from the cottage, Mr. +Farwell?” + +“You——” + +Over the gasp of the courtroom rose the bellow of rage from the +witness box, the metallic ring of the prosecutor’s voice, the thunder +of Judge Carver’s gavel and Ben Potts’s chant. + +“Silence! Silence!” + +“Your Honour, I would like to ask one question. Is Mr. Farwell on +trial for his life here, or is this the case of the People versus +Bellamy and Ives?” + +“This Court is not given to answering rhetorical questions, Mr. Farr. +Mr. Lambert, Mr. Farwell has already told you several times that he +was not at Orchards on the night of June nineteenth. The Court has +given you great latitude in your cross-examination, but it does not +propose to let you press it farther along those lines. If you have +other questions to put, you may proceed.” + +“No further questions, Your Honour.” Mr. Lambert’s voice remained +buoyantly impervious to rebuke. + +“One moment, Mr. Farwell.” The prosecutor moved swiftly forward. The +man in the witness box, who had lurched to his feet at that last +outrage from the exultant Lambert, turned smouldering eyes on him. On +the rim of the witness box, his hands were shaking visibly—thick, well +groomed, insensitive hands, with a heavy seal ring on one finger. “You +admit that you had been drinking heavily before you spoke to Mrs. +Ives, do you not?” + +“Yes—yes—yes.” + +“Did you regret that fact when you returned home that evening?” + +“I knew I’d talked too much—yes.” + +“Did you regret it still more deeply when you received the news of the +murder the following morning?” + +“Yes.” + +“Wasn’t that the reason for your attempted suicide?” + +A long pause, and then once more the heavy tortured voice: “Yes.” + +“Because you realized that harm had come to her through your +indiscretion?” + +“Yes, I told you—yes.” + +“Thanks, that’s all. Call Mr. Dallas.” + +“Mr. George Dallas!” + +A jaunty figure in blue serge, with a smart foulard tie and curly +blond hair just beginning to thin, moved briskly forward. Mr. Dallas +was obviously a good fellow; there was a hearty timbre to his rather +light voice, his lips parted constantly in an earnestly engaging smile +over even white teeth, and his brown eyes were the friendliest ever +seen out of a dog’s head. If he had not had thirty thousand dollars a +year, he would have been an Elk, a Rotarian, and the best salesman on +the force. + +He cast an earnestly propitiatory smile at Sue Ives, who smiled back, +faintly and gravely, and an even more earnestly propitiatory one at +the prosecutor, who returned it somewhat perfunctorily. + +“Mr. Dallas, you were giving a poker party on the night of the +nineteenth of June, were you not?” + +“I was indeed.” + +Mr. Dallas’s tone implied eloquently that it had been a highly +successful party, lacking only the prosecutor’s presence to make it +quite flawless. + +“You were present when Mr. Farwell telephoned Mr. Burgoyne?” + +“Oh, yes.” + +“The telephone was in the room in which you were playing?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“About what time did the call come in?” + +“Well, now let’s see.” Mr. Dallas was all eager helpfulness. “It must +have been about quarter to ten, because every fifteen minutes we were +making a jack pot, and I remember that we’d had the first and another +was just about due when the ’phone rang and Dick held up the game for +a while.” + +“Did you get Mr. Burgoyne’s end of the conversation?” + +“Well, not all of it. We were all making a good deal of a racket—just +kidding along, you know—but I heard Dick say, ‘Oh, put on your clothes +and come over and we’ll give you enough of ’em to start a bonfire.’” + +“Did Mr. Burgoyne make any comments after he came back?” + +“He said, ‘Boys, don’t let me forget to take some matches when I go. +Farwell hasn’t got one in the house.’” + +“What time did he leave?” + +“Oh, around eleven-fifteen, I guess; we broke up earlier than usual.” + +“Did you call Mr. Farwell up the following day around noon?” + +“Yes, I did.” Mr. Dallas’s jaunty accents were suddenly tinged with +gravity. + +“Can you remember that conversation?” + +“Well, I remember that when Elliot answered he still sounded half +asleep and rather put out. He said, ‘What’s the idea, waking a guy up +at this time of day?’ And I said, ‘Listen, Elliot, something +terrible’s happened. I was afraid you’d see it in the papers. Mimi +Bellamy’s been murdered in the gardener’s cottage at Orchards.’ He +made a queer sort of noise and said, ‘Don’t, George! Don’t, George!’ +Don’t—don’t—over and over again, as though he were wound up. I said, +‘Don’t what?’ But he’d hung up, I guess; anyway he didn’t answer.” + +“He seemed startled?” + +“Oh, rather—he seemed absolutely knocked cuckoo.” The voice hung +neatly between pity and regret, the sober eyes tempering the flippant +words. + +“All right, Mr. Dallas—thanks. Cross-examine.” + +As though loath to tear himself from this interesting and congenial +chatter, Mr. Dallas wrenched his expressive countenance from the +prosecutor and turned it, flatteringly intent, on the roseate Lambert. + +“Did other people overhear Mr. Burgoyne’s remarks, Mr. Dallas?” + +“Oh, I’m quite sure that they must have. We were all within a foot or +so of each other, you know.” + +“Who was in the room?” + +“Well, there was Burgoyne, and I had Martin and two fellows from New +York who were out for the week-end, and—let’s see——” + +“Wasn’t Mr. Ives in the room at the time?” + +“Well, no,” said Mr. Dallas, a curious, apprehensive shadow playing +over his sunny countenance. “No, he wasn’t.” + +“I see. What time had he arrived, Mr. Dallas?” + +“Mr. Ives?” + +“Yes.” + +Mr. Dallas cast a fleeting and despairing glance at the white-faced +figure in the corner by the window, and Patrick Ives returned it with +a steady, amused, indifferent air. “Oh—oh, well, he hadn’t.” + +Mr. Lambert stopped, literally transfixed, his eyes bulging in his +head. “You mean that he hadn’t arrived at a quarter to ten?” + +“No, he hadn’t.” + +For the first time since the trial opened, Sue Ives stirred in her +seat. She leaned forward swiftly, her eyes, urgent and imperious, on +her stupefied counsel. Her lifted face, suddenly vivid with purpose, +her lifted hand, cried a warning to him clearer than words. But Mr. +Lambert was heeding no warnings. + +“What time did he get there?” + +“He—well, you see—he didn’t get there.” + +Mr. Dallas again turned imploring eyes on the gentleman in the corner, +whose own eyes smiled back indulgently, a little more indifferent, a +little more amused. + +“Had he let you know of this change of plans?” + +“No,” said Mr. Dallas wretchedly. “No, he hadn’t—exactly.” + +“He simply didn’t turn up?” + +“That’s it—he just didn’t turn up.” Mr. Dallas’s voice made a feeble +effort to imply that nothing could possibly be of less consequence +between men of the world. + +Mr. Lambert, stupor still rounding his eyes, made a vague gesture of +dismissal, his face carefully averted from Sue Ives’s sternly accusing +countenance. + +“No further questions.” + +Mr. Dallas scrambled hastily to his feet, his ingenuous gaze turned +hopefully on the prosecutor. + +The expression on the prosecutor’s classic features, however, was not +calculated to reassure the most optimistic. Mr. Farr was contemplating +the amiable countenance of his late witness with much the look of +astounded displeasure which must have adorned Medusa’s first audience. +He, too, sketched a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door, and +Dallas, eager and docile, followed it. + +The third day of the Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +“Well, this is the time you beat me to it,” commented the reporter +approvingly. “That’s the hat I like too. Want a pencil?” + +“I always want a pencil,” said the red-headed girl. “And I beat +everybody to it. I’d rather get here at six o’clock than go through +that howling mob of maniacs one single time more. Besides, I’ve been +sleeping, so I might as well be here. Besides, I thought that if I got +here early you might tell me whether it was Mr. Ives or Mr. Farwell +who did it.” + +“Who did what?” + +“Who killed Mrs. Bellamy.” + +“Oh, Lord!” groaned the reporter. “Why is it that every mortal soul at +a murder trial spends his life trying to pin the crime on to anyone in +the world but the people being tried for it. Talk about juries!” + +“I’m not talking about juries,” said the red-headed girl firmly. “I’m +talking about Mr. Farwell, and Mr. Ives. Don’t you think that it was +funny that Mr. Farwell was there that day?” + +“Oh, comical as all get out! Still and all, I believe that he was +there precisely when he said he was. That poor devil was telling the +truth.” + +“How do you know?” inquired the red-headed girl respectfully. + +“Oh, you get hunches at this game when you’ve been at it long enough.” + +“That must be nice. Did you get a hunch about Mr. Ives?” + +“About Pat Ives? I haven’t heard him yet.” + +“What did it mean, his not being at that poker game?” + +“Well, it might have meant anything in the world—or nothing. The only +thing that’s perfectly clear is that it meant that last night was +undoubtedly one of wassail and carouse for Uncle Dudley Lambert.” + +“Why?” + +“My dear child, didn’t you see the look of unholy glee that flooded +the old gentleman’s countenance when he realized that young Mr. Ives +hadn’t a shadow of an alibi for that eventful evening?” + +“Well, but why?” + +“Because the only thing that Uncle Dudley would as soon do as save his +angel goddaughter from the halter is to drape one around Pat Ives’s +neck. He’s hated Pat ever since he dared to subject his precious Sue +to a life of good healthy hardship in New York; he’s never forgiven +him for estranging her from her father; and since he found out that he +betrayed her with the Bellamy girl, he’s been simply imbecile with +rage. And now, through some heaven-sent fluke, he’s enabled to put his +life in jeopardy. He’s almost out of his head. He’d better go a bit +warily, however. If I can read the human countenance—and it may +interest you to know that I can read the human countenance—Mrs. +Patrick Ives is not entirely in favour of sending her unworthy spouse +to the gallows. She had a monitory look in her eye that bodes ill for +Uncle Dudley if she ever realizes what he’s doing.” + +The red-headed girl heaved an unhappy sigh. “Well, I don’t believe +that anyone did it,” she remarked spaciously. “Not anyone here, I +mean. Burglars, probably, or one of those funny organizations, or——” + +“Silence, silence! The Court!” + +Mr. Farr had a new purple necktie, sombre and impressive; Mr. Lambert +was a trifle more frivolous, though the polka dots were discreet; Mrs. +Ives wore the same tweed suit, the same copper-coloured hat. Heavens, +it might as well be a uniform! + +“Call Miss Cordier.” + +“Miss Melanie Cordier!” + +The slim elegance of the figure in the severely simple black coat and +black _cloche_ hat was especially startling when one remembered that +Miss Melanie Cordier was the waitress in the Ives household. It was a +trifle more comprehensible when one remembered that she was as Gallic +as her name implied. With her creamy skin, her long black eyes and +smooth black curves of hair, her lacquer-red mouth exactly matching +the lacquer-red camellia on her lapel, Miss Cordier bore a striking +resemblance to a fashion magazine’s cover designs. She mounted the +witness box with profound composure and seated herself, elaborately at +ease. + +“Miss Cordier, what was your occupation on the nineteenth of June, +1926?” + +“I was waitress in the employment of Mrs. Patrick Ives.” There was +only the faintest trace of accent in the clear syllables—a slight +softening of consonants and broadening of vowels, becoming enough +variations on an Anglo-Saxon theme. + +“How long had you been in her employ?” + +“A year and nine month—ten month. I could not be quite sure.” + +“How did you happen to go to Mrs. Ives?” + +“It was through Mrs. Bellamy that I go.” + +“Mrs. Stephen Bellamy?” + +“Yes, sir, through Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.” + +“Will you tell us just how that happened, Miss Cordier?” + +“Assuredly. My little younger sister had been sent by an agency three +or four years ago to Mrs. Bellamy directly when she land in this +country. She was quite inexperience’, you understand, and could not +command a position such as one trained could demand; but Mrs. Bellamy +was good to her and she work hard, and after a while she marries a +young man who drives for the grocer and they——” + +“Yes, quite so, Miss Cordier. My question was, how did Mrs. Bellamy +happen to send you to Mrs. Ives?” + +“Yes, that is what I explain.” Miss Cordier, exquisitely unruffled, +pursued the even tenor of her way. “Sometime when my sister was there +with Mrs. Bellamy I would go out to show her what she should do. For +me, I have been a waitress for eight years and am well experience’. +Well, then I see Mrs. Bellamy and tell her that if some time she knows +of a excellent position in that Rosemont, I would take it so that +sometime I could see my little sister who is marrying that young man +from the grocer’s. And about two years ago, maybe, she write to me to +say that her friend Mrs. Patrick Ives she is looking for a extremely +superior waitress. So that is how I go to Mrs. Ives.” + +“Are you still in the employ of Mrs. Ives?” + +“No. On June twentieth I resign, since I am not quite content with +something that have happen.” + +“Did this occurrence have anything to do with the death of Mrs. +Bellamy?” + +“That I do not say. But I was not content.” + +“Miss Cordier, have you seen this book before? I call your attention +to its title—_Stone on Commercial Paper_, Volume III.” + +Miss Cordier’s black eyes swept it perfunctorily. “Yes, that book I +know.” + +“When did you last see it?” + +“The night of June nineteenth, about nine o’clock.” + +“Where?” + +“In the study of Mr. Ives.” + +“What particularly brought it to your attention?” + +“Because I take it out of the corner by the desk to look inside it.” + +“For what purpose?” + +“Because I want to see whether a note I put there that afternoon still +was there.” + +“And was that note still there, Miss Cordier?” + +“No, monsieur, that note, it was gone.” + +The prosecutor tossed the impressive volume carelessly on to the +clerk’s desk. “I offer this volume in evidence, Your Honour.” + +“Any objections?” Judge Carver turned an inquiring eye on the bulky +figure of Dudley Lambert, hovering uncertainly over the buckram-clad +repository of correspondence. + +Mr. Lambert, shifting from one foot to the other, eyed the volume as +though he were endeavouring to decide whether it were an infernal +machine or a jewel casket, and with one final convulsive effort +arrived at a conclusion: “No objection.” + +“Miss Cordier, to whom was the note that you placed in the book +addressed?” + +“It was addressed to Mr. Patrick Ives.” + +“Was it written by you?” + +“Ah, no, no, monsieur.” + +“Do you know by whom it was written?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“By whom?” + +“By Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.” + +“And how did it happen that you were in possession of a note from Mrs. +Bellamy to Mr. Ives?” + +“It was the habit of Mrs. Bellamy to mail to me letters that she +desire’ to have reach Mr. Ives, without anyone should know. Outside +there would be my name on the envelope; inside there would be a more +small envelope with the name of Mr. Ives on it. That one I would put +in the book.” + +“You had been doing this for some time?” + +“For some time, yes—six months—maybe eight.” + +“How many notes had you placed there, to the best of your +recollection?” + +“Ah, that I am not quite sure—ten—twelve—twenty—who knows? At first +once a month, maybe; that last month, two and three each week.” + +“At what time did you put the note there?” + +“Maybe fifteen minutes before seven, maybe twenty. After half-past +six, I know, and not yet seven.” + +“Was that your usual habit?” + +“Oh, no, monsieur; it was my habit to put them there in the night, +when I make dark the house. Half-past six, that was a very bad time, +because quite easily someone might see.” + +“Then why did you choose that time, Miss Cordier?” + +“Oh, but I do not choose. You see, it was like this: That night, when +MacDonald, the chauffeur, bring in the letters a little bit after six, +this one it was there for me, in a envelope that was write on it +Urgent. On the little envelope inside it say Urgent—Very Urgent in +letters with lines under them most black, and so I know that there is +great haste that Mr. Patrick Ives he should get that letter quick. So +I start to go to the study, but there in the hall is all those people +who have come from the club, and Mrs. Ives she send me quick to get +some _canapés_, and Mr. Dallas he come with me to show me what he want +for the cocktails—limes and honey and all those thing, you know.” She +looked appealingly at the prosecutor from the long black eyes and for +a moment his tense countenance relaxed into a grim smile. + +“You were about to tell us why you placed the note there at that +time.” + +“Yes; that is what I tell. Well, I wait and I wait for those people to +go home, and still they do not go, but I dare not go in so long as +across the hall from the study they all stay in that living room. But +after a while I cannot wait any longer for fear that Mr. Patrick Ives +should come and not find that most urgent note. So very quiet I slip +in when I think no one look, and I put that note quick, quick in the +book, and I start to come out in the hall; but when I get to the door +I see there is someone in the hall and I step back again to wait till +they are gone.” + +“And whom did you see in the hall, Miss Cordier?” + +“I see in the hall Mr. Elliot Farwell and Mrs. Patrick Ives.” + +“Did they see you?” + +Miss Cordier lifted eloquent shoulders. “How do I know, monsieur? +Maybe they do, maybe they don’t—me, I cannot tell. I step back quick +and listen, and after a while their voices stop and I hear a door +close, and I come out quick through the hall and into the door to the +kitchen without I see no one.” + +“Did you hear what Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives were saying?” + +“No, that I could not hear even when I listen, so low they talk, so +low that almost they whisper.” + +“You heard nothing else while you were there?” + +“Yes, monsieur. While I stand by the desk, but before I take out the +book, I heard mademoiselle go through the hall with the children.” + +“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle who?” The prosecutor’s voice was +expressionless enough, but there was a prophetic shadow of annoyance +in his narrowed eyes. + +“Mademoiselle Page.” + +“You say that she was simply passing through the hall?” + +“Yes, monsieur—on her way to the stairs.” + +“You had not yet touched the book?” + +“No, monsieur.” + +“You waited until she passed before you did so?” + +“Yes.” + +“Was Mrs. Ives in the hall at the time that you placed the note in the +book?” + +“Ah, that, too, I do not say. I say only that she was there one +minute—one half minute after I have put it there.” + +“Could she have seen you place it in the book from the position in +which you saw her standing?” + +“It is possible.” + +“Was she facing you?” + +“No, monsieur; it is Mr. Farwell who face’ me. Mrs. Ives had the back +toward me.” + +Again that shadow of fierce annoyance, turning the blue eyes almost +black. “Then what makes you say that she might have seen you?” + +The dark eyes meeting his widened a trifle in something too tranquil +for surprise—a mild, indolent wonder at the obtuseness of the human +race in general, men in particular, and prosecutors more particularly +still. “I say that because it might well be that in that little minute +she have turn’ the back to me, or if she have not, then it might be +that she see in the mirror.” + +“There was a mirror?” + +“But yes, on the other side of the hall from the study door there is a +long, long chair—a what you call a bench—where the gentlemen they +leave their hats. Over that there hangs the mirror. And it was by that +bench that I see Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives.” + +“And the desk and the bookcase were reflected in the mirror?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“I see. Now did you notice anything at dinner, Miss Cordier?” + +“Nothing at all; everything was as usual, of an entire serenity.” + +“It was at the usual hour?” + +“At quarter past seven—yes.” + +“Who was present?” + +“Mrs. Patrick Ives, Mrs. Daniel Ives, Mr. Ives, as usual.” + +“Do you recall the conversation?” + +“Oh, no, monsieur, I recall only that everyone talk as always about +small things. It is my practice, like an experience’ waitress, serious +and discreet, to be little in the dining room—only when serving, you +understand.” The serious and discreet waitress eyed her interrogator +with a look of bland superiority. + +“Nothing struck you as unusual after dinner?” + +“No, no.” + +“You saw no one before you turned out the lights for the night?” + +“Oh, yes, I have seen Mrs. Daniel Ives at that time, and she ask me +whether Mrs. Ives have return, and I say no.” + +“No one else?” + +“Only the other domestics, monsieur. At a little past ten I retire’ +for the night.” + +“You went to sleep immediately?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“Breakfast was just as usual the next morning?” + +“As usual—yes.” + +“At what time?” + +“At nine, as on all Sundays. Mrs. Patrick Ives have hers at half-past +nine, when she gets home from church.” + +“Nothing unusual in that?” + +“Oh, no; on the contrary, that is her habit.” + +“And after breakfast, nothing unusual occurred?” + +“I do not know whether you call it unusual, but after breakfast, yes, +something occurred.” + +“Just tell us what it was, please.” + +Miss Cordier spent an interminable moment critically inspecting a pair +of immaculate cream-coloured gloves before she decided to gratify this +desire: “It was just so soon as Mr. Ives and his mother have finish’ +breakfast, a few minutes before half-past nine. Mr. Ives he go +directly to his study, and I go after him with the Sunday papers and +before I go out I ask—because me, I am desirous to know—‘Mr. Ives, you +have got that note all right what I put in the book?’ And he say——” + +“Your Honour, I object! I object! What Mr. Ives said——” + +This time there was no indecision whatever in the clamour set up by +the long-suffering Lambert, and the prosecutor, eyeing him +benevolently, raised a warning hand to his witness. “Never mind what +he said, Miss Cordier. Just tell us what you said.” + +“I said, after he spoke, ‘Oh, Mr. Ives, then if you have not got it, +it is Mrs. Ives who have found it. She have seen me put it in the book +while she stood there in the hall.’” + +The prosecutor waited for a well-considered moment to permit this +conveniently revelatory reply to sink in. “It was after this +conversation with Mr. Ives that you decided you would no longer remain +with Mrs. Ives?” + +“No, monsieur, it was later in the morning that I decide that.” + +“Something occurred that made you decide it then?” + +Miss Cordier’s lacquer-red lips parted, closed, parted again. “Yes.” + +“What, Miss Cordier?” + +“At half-past eleven I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been killed.” +The dark eyes slipped sidelong in the direction of the quiet young +woman who had not so long since been her mistress. There she sat, +leaning easily back in the straight, uncomfortable chair, ankles +crossed, hands linked, studying the tips of her squarely cut little +shoes with lowered eyes. The black eyes travelled from the edge of the +kilted skirt to the edge of the small firm chin and then slid slowly +back to the prosecutor: “When I heard that, I was not content, so I no +longer stayed.” + +“Exactly.” The prosecutor plunged his hands deep in his pockets and +cocked a flagrantly triumphant eye at the agitated Lambert. “You no +longer stayed. That will be all, Miss Cordier. Cross-examine.” + +“Miss Cordier, you knew perfectly that if for one second it came to +Mrs. Ives’s attention that you had been acting as go-between in the +alleged correspondence between her husband and Mrs. Bellamy you would +not have remained five minutes under her roof, did you not?” + +Miss Cordier leaned a trifle farther over the edge of the witness box +to meet the rough anger of Lambert’s voice, something ugly and +insolent hardening the creamy mask of her face. + +“I know that when Mrs. Ives is angered she is quick to speak, quick to +act—yes, monsieur.” + +At the fatal swiftness of that blow, the ruddy face before her sagged +and paled, then rallied valiantly. “And so you decided that you had +better leave before Mr. Ives questioned her about finding the note and +you were turned out in disgrace, didn’t you?” + +“I have said already, monsieur, that I leave because I have heard that +Mrs. Bellamy have been murdered and I am not content.” The ominously +soft voice pronounced each syllable with a lingering and deadly +deliberation. + +Mr. Lambert eyed her savagely and moved heavily on: “You say that you +were cut off from escaping through the hall by the fact that you saw +that it was occupied by Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives?” + +“That is so.” + +“Why didn’t you go back through the dining room to the pantry?” + +“Because I hear Mr. Dallas and Mr. Burgoyne talking from the dining +room, where they try one more cocktail.” + +“Why should they have thought it unusual to have you come from the +study?” + +“I think it more prudent that no one should know I have been in that +study.” + +“You were simply staying there in order to spy on Mrs. Ives, weren’t +you?” + +“I could not help see Mrs. Ives unless I close’ my eyes.” + +Mr. Lambert was obliged to swallow twice before he was able to +continue: + +“Did you tell Mr. Ives that Mr. Farwell was in the hall also at the +time that you saw Mrs. Ives there?” + +“I do not remember whether I tell him or whether I do not.” + +“Mr. Farwell was facing you, was he not?” + +“Yes.” + +“What made you so sure that it was Mrs. Ives who took the note, not +Mr. Farwell?” + +“Because, when I hear the door close, then I know that Mr. Farwell he +has gone.” + +“And how did you know that?” + +Once more Miss Cordier raised eloquent shoulders. “Because, monsieur, +I am not stupid. I look out, he is standing by the hat stand; I go +back, I hear a door close, I look out once more, and he is not there. +But that is of the most elementary.” + +“You should be a detective instead of wasting your time waiting on +tables,” commented her courtly interrogator. “The plain truth is, +isn’t it, that anyone in the house might have gone out and closed that +door while Mr. Farwell went back to the living room with Mrs. Ives?” + +“If you say so, monsieur,” replied Miss Cordier indifferently. + +“And the plain truth is that Mr. Farwell was frantically infatuated +with Mrs. Bellamy and was spying on her constantly, isn’t it?” + +“It is possible.” + +“Possible! Mr. Farwell himself stated it half a dozen times from this +very witness box. It’s a plain fact. And another plain fact is that +any one of a dozen other people might have passed through the hall and +seen you at work, mightn’t they?” + +“I should not believe so—no, monsieur.” + +“Whether you believe it or not, it happens to be the truth. Six or +eight servants, eight or ten guests—— What reason have you for +believing that Miss Page herself did not notice something unusual in +your attitude and turn back in time to see you place the note after +you believed that she had passed?” + +“No reason, monsieur—only the evidence of all five of my senses.” + +“You are a highly talented young woman, Miss Cordier, but you can’t +see with your back turned, can you?” + +“Monsieur is pleased to jest,” remarked Miss Cordier, in the tone of +one frankly undiverted. + +“Don’t characterize my questions, please—answer them.” + +“Willingly. I do not see with my back turn’.” + +“So it comes down to the fact that ten—twelve—fourteen people might +have seen you place this urgent and mysterious note that you so boldly +charge Mrs. Ives with taking, doesn’t it?” + +“That is monsieur’s opinion, not mine.” + +Monsieur glared menacingly at the not too subtle mockery adorning the +witness’s pleasing countenance. + +“And furthermore, Miss Cordier, it comes down to the fact that we have +only your word for it that the note was ever placed in the book at +all, doesn’t it?” + +“Monsieur does not find that sufficient?” + +Monsieur ignored the question, but his countenance testified +eloquently that such was indeed the case. + +“Just how did you happen to select a book in Mr. Ives’s library as a +hiding place for this correspondence?” + +“Because that is a good safe place, where every night he can look +without anyone to watch.” + +“What made you think that someone else might not take out that book to +read?” + +“That book? _Stone on Commercial Paper_, Volume III? Monsieur is +pleased to jest!” + +Monsieur, scowling unattractively at some openly diverted members of +the press, changed his line of attack with some abruptness. “Miss +Cordier, you know a man called Adolph Platz, do you not?” + +Miss Cordier’s lashes flickered once—twice. “Of a certainty.” + +“Did you see him in the afternoon of the nineteenth of June?” + +“Yes.” + +“How did you come to know him?” + +“He was for a time chauffeur to Mrs. Ives.” + +“Married, wasn’t he?” + +“Married, yes.” + +“Mrs. Platz was a chambermaid in Mrs. Ives’s employ?” + +“Yes.” + +“They left because Mrs. Platz quarrelled with you, did they not?” + +“One moment, please.” The prosecutor lifted an imperious voice. “Are +we to be presented with an account of all the back-stairs quarrels, +past and present, indulged in by Mrs. Ives’s domestics? To the best of +my belief, my distinguished adversary is entering a field, however +profitable and entertaining it may prove, that I have left totally +virgin. Does the court hold this proper for cross-examination?” + +“The Court does not. The question is overruled.” + +“I ask an exception, Your Honour. . . . Miss Cordier, when you were +turning out the lights that night, did you go into all the downstairs +rooms?” + +“Into all of them—yes.” + +“Did you see Mr. Patrick Ives in any of them?” + +“No, monsieur.” + +Sue Ives leaned forward with a swift gesture, a sudden wave of colour +sweeping her from throat to brow. Mr. Lambert looked diligently away. + +“You have placed great stress on your skill, experience, and training +as a waitress, Miss Cordier. Are you a waitress at present?” + +“No.” + +“Just what is your present occupation?” + +“At present I have no occupation. I rest.” + +“In the boarding house in Atlantic City where you have been occupied +in resting for the past three or four months, you are not reposing +under the name of Melanie Cordier, are you?” + +The black eyes darted toward the prosecutor, who stood leaning, shrewd +and careless, over the back of a tilted chair. “Is it particularly +germane to this inquiry whether Miss Cordier chooses to call herself +Joan of Arc, if she wants to?” he inquired. + +“I propose to attack the credibility of this witness,” said Mr. +Lambert unctuously. “I propose to prove by this witness, that while +she is posing here as a correct young person and a model servant she +is actually living a highly incorrect life as a supposedly married +woman. . . . Miss Cordier, I ask you whether for the past three months +you have not been passing as the wife of Adolph Platz, having +persuaded him to abandon his own wife?” + +In the pale oval of her face the black eyes flamed and smoked. “And I +tell you no, no, and again no, monsieur!” + +“You do not go under the name of Mrs. Adolph Platz?” + +“I do not persuade him to abandon that stupid doll, his wife. Long +before I knew him, he was tired and sick of her.” + +“You do not go under the name of Mrs. Adolph Platz?” + +“That is most simple. Monsieur Platz he have been to me a excellent +friend and adviser. When I explain to him that I am greatly in need of +rest he suggest to me that a woman young, alone, and of not an entire +lack of attraction would quite possibly find it more restful if the +world should consider her married. So he is amiable enough to suggest +that if it should assist me, I might for this small vacation use his +name. It is only thing I have take from him, monsieur may rest +assured.” + +“You remove a great weight from my mind,” Mr. Lambert assured her, +horridly playful; “and from the minds of these twelve gentlemen as +well, I am sure.” The twelve gentlemen, who had been following the +lady’s simple and virtuous explanation of her somewhat unconventional +conduct with startled attention, smiled for the first time in four +days, shifting stiffly on their chairs and exchanging sidelong +glances, skeptically jocose. “It is a pleasure to all of us to know +that such chivalry as Mr. Platz has exhibited is not entirely extinct +in this wicked workaday world. I hardly think that we can improve on +your explanation as to why you are known in Atlantic City as Mrs. +Adolph Platz, Miss Cordier. That will be all.” + +The prosecutor, who did not seem unduly perturbed by these weighty +flights of sarcasm, continued to lean on his chair, though he once +more lifted his voice: “You had saved quite a sum of money during +these past years, hadn’t you, Miss Cordier?” + +“Yes, monsieur.” + +“It proved ample for your modest needs on this long-planned and +greatly needed vacation, did it not?” + +“More than ample—yes.” + +“Mr. Platz had left his wife some time before these unhappy events +caused you to leave Mrs. Ives, hadn’t he?” + +“Of a surety, monsieur.” + +“That’s all, thank you, Miss Cordier.” + +Miss Cordier moved leisurely from the stand, chic and poised as ever, +disdaining even a glance at the highly gratified Lambert, and +bestowing the briefest of smiles on Mr. Farr, who responded even more +briefly. Many a lady, trailing sable and brocade from an opera box, +has moved with less assurance and grace than Mrs. Ives’s one-time +waitress, the temporary Mrs. Adolph Platz. The eyes of the courtroom, +perplexed, diverted, and faintly disturbed, followed her balanced and +orderly retreat, the scarlet camellia defiant as a little flag. + +“Call Miss Roberts.” + +“Miss Laura Roberts!” + +Miss Laura Roberts also wore black, but she wore her black with a +difference. A decent, sober, respectful apparel for a decent, sober, +respectful little person—Miss Roberts, comely, rosy-faced, gray-eyed, +fawn-haired and soft-voiced, had all the surface qualifications of an +ideal maid, and she obviously considered that those qualifications did +not include scarlet lips and scarlet flowers. Under the neat black hat +her eyes met the prosecutor’s shyly and bravely. + +“Miss Roberts, what was your occupation on June nineteenth, 1926?” + +“I was maid and seamstress to Mrs. Patrick Ives, sir.” + +The pretty English voice, with its neat, clipped accent, fell +pleasantly and reassuringly on the ears of the courtroom, which +relaxed with unfeigned relief from the tensity into which her Gallic +colleague had managed to plunge it during her tenure of the witness +box. + +“Did you see Mrs. Ives on the evening of the nineteenth?” + +“Not after dinner—no, sir. I asked her before dinner if it would be +quite all right for cook and me to go down to the village to church +that night, and she said quite, and not to bother about getting home +early, because she wouldn’t be needing me again. So after church we +met two young gentlemen that we knew and went across to the drug store +and had some ices, and sat talking a bit before we walked home, so +that it was well on to eleven when we got in, and all the lights were +out except the one in the kitchen, so I knew that Mrs. Ives was in +bed.” + +“What time did you leave the house for church, Miss Roberts?” + +“Well, I couldn’t exactly swear to it, sir, but it must have been +around half-past eight; because service was at nine, and it’s a good +bit of a walk, and I do remember hurrying with dinner so that I could +turn down the beds and be off.” + +“Were you chambermaid in the household as well as seamstress-maid?” + +“Oh, no, sir; only it was the chambermaid’s night off, you see, and +then it was my place to do it.” + +“I see. So on this night you turned down all the beds before +eight-thirty?” + +“Yes, sir—all but Miss Page’s, that is.” + +“That wasn’t included in your duties?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, it was. But that night when I got to the day nurse’s +door it was locked, and when I knocked, no one didn’t answer at first, +and then Miss Page called out that she had a headache and had gone to +bed already——” + +Miss Roberts hesitated and looked down at the prosecutor with honest, +troubled eyes. + +“Nothing extraordinary about that, was there?” + +“Well, yes, sir, there was. You see, when I was coming down the hall I +heard what I thought were voices coming out of those rooms, and +crying, and I was afraid that the little girl was having more trouble +with her ear. That’s why I started to go in without knocking, but +after I’d been standing there a minute, I heard that it was Miss Page +crying herself, fit to break her heart. I never heard anyone cry so +dreadful in all my life. It fairly gave me a turn, but the moment I +knocked there wasn’t a sound, and then after a minute she called out +that she wouldn’t need me, just as I told you, sir. So I went on my +way, of course, though I was still a bit worried. She’d been crying so +dreadful, poor thing, that I was afraid she would be right down sick.” + +“Yes, quite so. Very much upset, as though she’d been through an +agitating experience?” + +“Oh, yes, indeed, sir.” + +“You were mistaken about the voices weren’t you? It was just Miss Page +crying?” + +“No, sir—I thought I heard voices, too.” The soft voice was barely +audible. + +“The little girl’s?” + +“No, sir. It sounded—it sounded like Mr. Ives.” + +The prosecutor stared at her blankly. + +“Mr. Patrick Ives?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You could hear what he was saying?” + +“No, sir, I couldn’t; it stopped as soon as I tried the door. I +thought he was talking to the little girl.” + +Mr. Farr continued to contemplate her blankly for a moment, and then, +with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders, dismissed Mr. Ives, Miss +Page, and the locked door for more fruitful pastures. + +“Now, Miss Roberts, your duties included the care of your mistress’s +wardrobe, did they not?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“You are quite familiar with all its contents?” + +“Oh, quite.” + +“Will you be good enough to tell us if it contains to-day all the +articles that it contained on the nineteenth of June, 1926?” + +“No, sir, it doesn’t. Mrs. Ives gives away a lot of her things at the +end of every season. We sent a big box off to a sick cousin she has in +Arizona, and another to some young ladies in Delaware, and another to +the——” + +“Never mind about the things that you sent at the end of the season. +Did you send anything at about the time of the murder—within a few +weeks of it, say?” + +The roses in Miss Roberts’s cheeks faded abruptly, and the candid eyes +fled precipitately to the chair where Susan Ives sat, playing idly +with the crystal clasp of her brown suède bag. At the warm, friendly, +reassuring little smile that she found waiting for her, Miss Roberts +apparently found heart of grace. “Yes, sir, we did,” she said +steadily. + +“On what date, please?” + +“On the twentieth of June.” + +The courtroom drew in its breath sharply—a little sigh for its lost +ease—and moved forward the inch that separated suspense from polite +attention. + +“To whom was the package sent?” + +“It was sent to the Salvation Army.” + +“What was in it?” + +“Well, there were two old sweaters and a swiss dress that had shrunk +quite small, and a wrapper, and some blouses and a coat.” + +“What kind of a coat, Miss Roberts?” + +“A light flannel coat—a kind of sports coat, you might call it,” said +Miss Roberts clearly; but those who craned forward sharply enough +could see the knuckles whiten on the small, square, capable hands. + +“Cream-coloured flannel?” + +“Well, more of a biscuit, I’d call it,” replied Mrs. Ives’s maid +judicially. + +“The coat that Mrs. Ives had been wearing the evening before, wasn’t +it?” + +“I believe it was, sir.” + +“Did you see the condition of this coat before you packed it, Miss +Roberts?” + +“No, sir, I didn’t. It wasn’t I that packed it.” + +“Not you? Who did pack it?” + +“Mrs. Ives packed it herself.” + +“Ah, I see.” In that sudden white light of triumph the prosecutor’s +face was almost beautiful—a cruel and sinister beauty, such as might +have lighted the face of the youngest Spanish Inquisitionist as the +stray shot of a question went straight to the enemy’s heart. “It was +Mrs. Ives who packed it. How did it come into your hands, Miss +Roberts?” + +“The package, sir?” + +“Certainly, the package.” + +“It was this way, sir: A little before eight Sunday morning Mrs. +Ives’s bell rang and I went down to her room. She was all dressed for +church, and there was a big box on her bed. She said, ‘I rang for you +before, Roberts, but you were probably at breakfast. Take this down to +MacDonald and tell him to mail it when he gets the papers. The post +office closes at half-past nine.’” + +“Was that all that she said?” + +“Oh, no, sir. She asked me for some fresh gloves, and then she said +over her shoulder like as she was going out, ‘It’s those things that I +was getting together for the Salvation Army. I put in the coat I was +wearing last night too. I absolutely ruined it with some automobile +grease on Mr. Bellamy’s car.’” + +“Nothing more?” + +“Well, then I said, ‘Oh, madam, couldn’t it be cleaned?’ And Mrs. Ives +said, ‘It isn’t worth cleaning; this is the third year I’ve had it.’ +Then she went out, sir, and I took it down and gave it to MacDonald.” + +“Was it addressed?” + +“Oh, yes, sir.” + +“How?” + +“Just Salvation Army Headquarters, New York, N. Y.” + +“No address in the corner as to whom it came from?” + +“Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Ives never——” + +“Be good enough to confine yourself to the question. You are not +aware, yourself, of the exact nature of these stains, are you, Miss +Roberts?” + +“Yes, sir, I am,” said the pink-cheeked Miss Roberts firmly. “They +were grease stains.” + +“What?” The prosecutor’s startled voice skipped half an octave. +“Didn’t you distinctly tell me that you didn’t see this coat?” + +“No, sir, no more I did. It was Mrs. Ives that told me they were +grease stains.” + +The prosecutor indulged in a brief bark of mirth that indicated more +relief than amusement. “Then, as I say, you are unable to tell us of +your own knowledge?” + +“No, sir,” replied Miss Roberts, a trifle pinker and a trifle firmer. +“Mrs. Ives told me that those stains were grease stains, so I’m +certainly able to say of my own knowledge that it was absolutely true +if she said so.” + +There was something in the soft, sturdy voice that made the grimy +courtroom a pleasanter place. Sue Ives’s careless serenity flashed +suddenly to that of a delighted child; Stephen Bellamy’s fine, grave +face warmed and lightened; the shadows lifted for a moment from Pat +Ives’s haunted eyes; there was a grateful murmur from the press, a +friendly stir in the jury. The quiet-eyed, soft-voiced, stubborn +little Miss Roberts was undoubtedly the heroine of the moment. + +Mr. Farr, however, was obviously unmoved by this exhibition of +devotion and loyalty. He permitted more than a trace of annoyance to +penetrate his clear, metallic voice. “That’s all very pretty and +touching, naturally, Miss Roberts, but from a crudely legal standpoint +we are forced to realize that your statement as to the nature of the +stains has no weight whatever. It is a fact, is it not, that you never +laid eyes on the stained coat that Mrs. Ives sent out of her house +within a few hours of the time that this murder was committed?” + +“Yes, sir, that is a fact.” + +“No further questions, Miss Roberts. Cross-examine.” + +“It is a fact, too, that Mrs. Ives frequently sent packages in just +this way, isn’t it, Miss Roberts?” inquired Mr. Lambert mellifluously. + +“Oh, yes, indeed, she did—often and often.” + +“Was she in the habit of putting her address on packages sent to +charitable institutions?” + +“No, sir. She didn’t want to be thanked for her charities—not ever.” + +“Precisely. That’s all, Miss Roberts—thanks.” + +“Call Orsini.” + +“Loo-weegee Aw-see-nee!” + +Luigi Orsini glanced darkly at Ben Potts as he mounted the witness +stand, and Mr. Potts returned the glance with Nordic severity. + +“What was your occupation on June 19, 1926, Orsini?” + +“I work for Miz’ Bell’my.” + +“In what capacity?” + +“What you say?” + +“What was your job?” + +“I am what you call handy—do everything there is to do.” + +The spacious gesture implied Gargantuan labours and super-human +abilities. A small, thick, stocky individual, swarthy and pompadoured, +with lustrous eyes, a glittering smile, and a magnificent barytone +voice, he suggested without any effort whatever infinite possibilities +in the rôle of either tragedian or comedian. The redoubtable Farr eyed +him with a trace of well-justified apprehension. + +“Well, suppose you tell us what your principal activities were on the +nineteenth of June.” + +“Ah, well, that day me, I am very active, like per usual. At six +o’clock I arise and after some small breakfast I take extra-fine +strong wire and some very long sticks——” + +“No, no, you can skip all that. You heard Mr. Farwell’s testimony, +didn’t you?” + +“For sure I hear that testimony.” + +“Was it correct that he stopped around noon at the Bellamys’ and asked +for Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“All correct, O. K.” + +“Did he tell you where he was going?” + +“Yes, sair, he then he say he get her at that cottage.” + +“Nothing else?” + +“Not one other thing else.” + +“You didn’t see him again?” + +“No, no; I do not see him again evair.” + +“When did you last see Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“It is about eight in the evening—maybe five minute before, maybe five +minute after.” + +“How do you fix the time?” + +“I have look at my watch—this watch you now see, which is a good +instrument of entirely pure silver, but not always faithful.” + +The prosecutor waved away the bulky shining object dangled enticingly +before his eyes with a gesture of almost ferocious impatience. “Never +mind about that. Why did you consult your watch?” + +The owner of the magnificent but unfaithful instrument swelled darkly +for a moment, but continued to dangle his treasure. “That you shall +hear—patience. I produce the instrument at this time so that you note +that while the clock over the door it say twenty minutes before the +hour, this watch it say nine minute—or maybe eight. You judge for +yourself. It is without a doubt eccentric. But on that night still I +have consult it to see if I go to New York at eight-twenty. I wait to +decide still when I see Mrs. Bell’my run down the front steps and come +down to the gate where I stand.” + +“Did she speak to you?” + +“Oh, positive. She ask, ‘What, Luigi, you do not go to New York?’” + +“How did she know that you were going to New York?” + +“Because already before dinner I have ask permission from Mr. Bell’my +if I can go to New York that evening to see a young lady from Milan +that I think perhaps I marry, maybe. Miz’ Bell’my she is in the next +room and she laugh and call out, ‘You tell Marietta that if she get +you, one day she will find herself marry to the President of these +United State’.’ I excuse myself for what may seem like a boast, but +those are the words she use.” + +And suddenly, as though he found the memory of that gay, mocking young +voice floating across the heavy air of the courtroom more unbearable +than all the blood and shame and horror that had invaded it, Stephen +Bellamy’s face twisted to a tortured grimace and he lifted an unsteady +hand to lowered eyes. + +“Look!” came a penetrating whisper. “He’s crying, ain’t he? Ain’t he, +Gertie?” + +And the red-headed girl lowered her own eyes swiftly, a shamed and +guilty flush reaching to the roots of her hair. How ugly, how +contemptible, one’s thoughts could sound in words! + +“What reply did you make to Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“I tell to her that I think maybe I had better not go, as that +afternoon I have invest my money in a small game of chance with the +gardener next door and the investment it have prove’ unsound. I say +that how if I go to New York to see my young lady, it is likely that I +must request of her the money to return back to Rosemont—and me, who +am proud, I find that indelicate. So Miz’ Bell’my she laugh out and +look quick in the little bag that she carry and give me three +dollar’—to make the course of true love run more smooth, she say—and +then she call back over her shoulder, ‘Better hurry, Luigi, or you +miss that train.’ So I hurry, but all the same I miss it—by two small +minute, because, chiefly, this watch he is too eccentric.” + +In spite of its eccentricity, he returned it tenderly to his vest +pocket, after a final flip in the direction of the harassed Farr and +the enraptured audience. + +“Did you notice anything else in the bag when Mrs. Bellamy opened it?” + +“Oh, positive. The eyes of Luigi they miss nothing what there is to +see. All things they observe. In that bag of Miz’ Bell’my there are +stuff, stuff in two, three letters—I dunno for sure—maybe four. But +they make that small little bag bulge out so—very tight, like that.” +Mr. Orsini’s eloquent hands sketched complete rotundity. + +“You never saw Mrs. Bellamy again?” + +“Not evair—no, no more—not evair.” + +For a moment the warm blood under the swarthy Southern skin seemed to +run more slowly and coldly; but after a hasty glance at the safe, +reassuring autumn sunlight slanting across the crowded room, the +colour flowed boldly back to cheek and lip. + +“You say that you missed the train to New York. What did you do then?” + +“Then I curse myself good all up and down for a fool that is a fool +all right, and I go back to my room in the garage and get into my bed +and begin to read a story in a magazine that call itself _Honest +Confession_ about a bride what——” + +“Never mind what you were reading. Did you notice anything unusual on +your return?” + +“Well, maybe you don’t call it nothing unusual, but I notice that the +car of Mr. Bell’my it is no longer in the garage. That make me +surprise’ for a minute, because I have heard Mr. Bell’my tell Nellie, +the house girl, that it is all right for her to go home early to her +mother, where she sleep, because he will be there to answer the +telephone if it should ring. But all the same, I go on to bed. I just +think he change his mind, maybe.” + +“What time did you get back to the garage?” + +“At twenty-two minutes before nine I am in my room. That I verify by +the alarm clock that repose on the top of my bureau, and which is of +an entire reliability; I note it expressly, because I am enrage’ that +I have miss’ that train by so small an amount.” + +“Orsini, do you know what kind of tires Mr. Bellamy was using on his +car?” + +“Yes, sair, that, too, I know. There are three old tires of what they +call Royal Cord make—two on back and one on front. On the left front +one is a good new Silvertown Cord, what I help him to change about a +month before all these things have happen. For spare, he carry a all +new Ajax. And that is all there is.” + +“You’re perfectly sure that the Ajax wasn’t on?” + +“Oh, surest thing.” + +“When did you last see the car?” + +“When I go down to the gate, round half-past seven.” + +“And the Ajax was still on as a spare?” + +“That’s what.” + +“Did you see Mr. Bellamy again on the evening of the nineteenth?” + +“Yes, that evening I have seen Mr. Bell’my again.” + +“At what time?” + +“At five before ten.” + +“Was he alone?” + +“No; with him there was a lady.” + +“Did you recognize her?” + +“Yes, sair, I have recognize’ her.” + +“Who was this lady, Orsini?” + +“This lady, sair, was Miz’ Patrick Ives.” + +At those words, pronounced with exactly their proper dramatic +inflection by that lover of the drama, Mr. Luigi Orsini, every head in +the courtroom pivoted to the spot where Mrs. Patrick Ives sat with the +autumn sun warming her hair to something better than gold. And quite +oblivious to the ominous inquiry in those straining eyes, she turned +toward Stephen Bellamy, meeting his startled eyes with a small, rueful +smile, lifted brows and a little shake of the head that came as near +to saying “I told you so” as good sportsmanship permitted. + +“You are quite positive of that?” + +“Oh, without one single doubt.” + +“How were you able to identify her?” + +“Because I hear her voice, as clear as I hear you, and I see her clear +as I see you too.” + +“How were you able to do that?” + +“By the lights of Mr. Bell’my’s car, when she get out and look up at +my window, where I stand and look out.” + +“Tell us just how you came to be standing there looking out, please.” + +“Well, after a while, I began to get sleepy over that magazine, and I +look at the clock and it say ten minutes to ten, and I think, ‘Luigi, +my fine fellow, to-morrow you rise at six to do the work that lies +before you, and at present it is well that you should sleep.’ So I +arise to turn out the light, which switch is by the window, and just +when I get there to do that I hear a auto car turn in at the gate. I +think, ‘Ah-ha! There now comes Mr. Bell’my.’ And then I look out of +that window, for I am surprise’. It is the habit of Mr. Bell’my to put +away that car so soon as he come in, but this time he don’t do that. +He stop in front of the house and he help out a lady. She stand there +looking up at my window, and I see her clear like it is day, but it is +all dark inside, so she can see nothing. Then she say, ‘I still could +swear that I have seen a light,’ and Mr. Bell’my he say, ‘Sue, don’t +let this get you. I tell you that there is no one here—I saw him +headed for the train. Maybe perhaps it was the shine from our own +lamps what you see. Come on.’ And she say, ‘Maybe; but I could +swear——’ And then I don’t hear any more, because they go into the +house, and me, I stand there like one paralyze’, because always I have +believe Mr. Bell’my to be a man of honour who love——” + +“Yes—never mind that. Did you see them come out?” + +“Yes, that I see, too. In five-ten minutes they come out and get quick +into the car, and drive away without they say one word. They start off +very fast, so that the car it jump.” + +“Do you know at what time Mr. Bellamy returned that night?” + +“No; because then I wake only half up from sleep when I hear him drive +that car into the garage, and I do not turn to look at the clock.” + +“It was some time later?” + +“Some time—yes. But whether one hour—three hours—five hours, that I +cannot say. What I am not sure of like my life, that I do not say.” + +“Exactly; very commendable. That’s all, thanks. Cross-examine.” + +Orsini wheeled his lustrous orbs in the direction of Mr. Lambert, +whose ruddy countenance had assumed an expression of intense +inhospitality, though he managed to inject an ominous suavity into his +ample voice. “With those vigilant and all-seeing eyes of yours, +Mr.—er—Mr. Orsini, were you able to note the garments that Mrs. +Bellamy was wearing when she went past you at the gate?” + +“Oh, positive. A white dress, all fluffy, and a black cape, quite +thin, so that almost you see through it—not quite, maybe, but almost.” + +“Any hat?” + +“On the head a small black scarf that she have wrap’ also around her +neck, twice or mebbe three time. The eyes of Luigi——” + +“Exactly. Could you see whether she had on her jewels?” + +“Positive. Always like that in the evening, moreover, she wear her +jewels.” + +“You noticed what they were?” + +“Same like always—same necklace out of pearls, same rings, diamond and +sapphire, two on one hand, one the other—I see them when she open that +bag.” + +“Mr. Bellamy was a person of moderate means, wasn’t he, as far as you +know?” + +“Oh, everybody what there is around here knows he wasn’t no John P. +Rockfeller, I guess.” + +“Do you believe that the stones were genuine?” + +Mr. Orsini, thus appealed to as an expert, waxed eloquent and +expansive. “Oh, positive. That I know for one absolute sure thing.” + +“Tell us just how, won’t you?” + +“Well, that house girl, Nellie, one night she tell me that Miz’ +Bell’my have left one of her rings at the club where she wash her +hands, but that Miz’ Bell’my just laugh and say she should worry +herself, because all those rings and her pearls they are insure big, +and if she lose those, she go out and buy herself a new house and a +auto car, and maybe a police dog too.” + +“I see. Had it ever occurred to you that Mrs. Bellamy was using the +cottage at Orchards for other purposes than piano practice, Mr. +Orsini?” + +Orsini’s smile flashed so generously that it revealed three really +extravagant gold fillings. “Well, me, I don’t miss many things, maybe +you guess. After she get that key three-four times, I think to myself, +‘Luigi, it is funny thing that nevair she give you back that key until +the day after, and always those evenings she go out by herself—most +generally when Mr. Bell’my he stay in town to work.’ So one of those +nights when she ask for that key I permit myself to take a small +little stroll up the road in Orchards, and sure thing, there is a +light in that cottage and a auto car outside the door. Sufficient! I +look no further. Me, I am a man of the world, you comprehend.” + +“Obviously.” + +“Just a moment, Mr. Lambert,” interrupted Judge Carver. “Is your +cross-examination going to take some time?” + +“Quite a time, I believe, Your Honour.” + +“Then I think it best that we adjourn for the noon recess, as it is +already after twelve. The Court stands adjourned until one-ten.” + + +“Well, here’s where we get our comic relief,” said the reporter with +unction. “That son of sunny Italy is going to give us an enviable +imitation of a three-ringed circus and a bag of monkeys before he and +Lambert get through with each other, or I miss my guess. He’s got a +look in his eye that is worth the price of admission alone. What’s +your mature opinion of him?” + +“I think that he’s beguiling,” said the red-headed girl somewhat +listlessly. Little shadows were under her gray eyes, and she curled +small limp paws about a neglected notebook. Something in the drooping +shoulders under the efficient jacket suggested an exhausted baby in +need of a crib and a bottle of hot milk and a firm and friendly +tucking in. She made a half-hearted effort to overtake an enormous +yawn that was about to engulf her, and then surrendered plaintively. + +“Bored?” inquired the real reporter, his countenance illuminated by an +expression of agreeable surprise. + +“Bored?” cried the lady beside him in a voice at once scornful and +outraged. “Bored? I’m half destroyed with excitement. I can’t sleep +any more. I go back to the boarding house every night and sit up in +front of a gas stove with an orange-and-magenta comforter over my +shoulders that ought to warm the dead, writing up my notes until all +hours; and then I put a purple comforter over my knees and a muffler +over my nose, and get an apple and sit there alternately gnawing the +apple and my fingers and trying to work out who did it until even the +cats stop singing under my window and the sky begins to get that nice, +appealing slate colour that’s so prettily referred to as dawn. And +even then I don’t know who did it.” + +“Don’t you, indeed?” inquired the reporter severely, looking irritated +and anxious. “Haven’t you any sense at all, you little idiot? Listen, +I know a place just two blocks down where you can get some fairly +decent hot soup. You go and drink about a quart of it and then trot +along home and turn in, and I’ll do your notes for you to-night so +well that your boss will double your salary in the morning—and if +you’re very good and sleep eighteen hours, I may tell you who did the +murder.” + +The red-headed girl, who had shuddered fastidiously at the offer of +fairly decent soup, eyed him ungratefully as she extracted a packet of +salted peanuts from the capacious pouch that served her as handbag, +commissary, and dressing table. + +“Thank you kindly,” she said. “My boss wrote me two special-delivery +letters yesterday to say that I was doing far the best stuff that was +coming up out of Redfield—far. He said that the three clippings that I +sent him of your stuff showed promise—he did, honestly. . . . I think +that soup’s terrible, and this is the first time in my life that I’ve +been able to stay up as late as I pleased without anyone sending me to +bed. I’m mad about it. . . . Have some peanuts?” + +“No, thanks,” said the reporter, rising abruptly. “Anything I can get +you outside?” + +“You’re cross!” wailed the red-headed girl, her eyes round with panic +and contrition. “You are—you are—you’re absolutely furious. Wait, +please—please, or I’ll hang on to your coat tails and make a scene. +The real reason I don’t go out and get soup is because I don’t dare. +If I went away even for a minute, something might happen, and then I +wouldn’t ever sleep again. Someone might get my seat—didn’t you see +that fat, sinful-looking old lady who got the _Gazette_ girl’s place +yesterday? She wouldn’t go even when three officers and the sheriff +told her she had to, and the _Gazette_ girl had to sit on a stool in +the gallery, and she said she had such a rushing of rage in her ears +that she couldn’t hear anything that anyone said all afternoon. So, +you see—— And I would like a ham sandwich and I think that you write +better than Conrad, and I apologize, and if you’ll tell me who did the +murder, I’ll tell you. And please hurry, because I hope you won’t be +gone long.” + +“You’re a nice little nut,” said the reporter, and he beamed on her +forgivingly, “and I like you. I like the way your nose turns up +and your mouth turns down, and I like that funny little hat you +wear. . . . I’ll make it in two jumps. Watch me!” + +The red-headed girl watched him obediently, her face pink and her eyes +bright under the funny little hat. When the door opened to let him +out, she plunged her eyes apprehensively for a moment into the silent, +pushing, heaving mob behind the policeman’s broad blue shoulders, +shivered, and turned them resolutely away. + +“If I were convicted of murder to-morrow,” thought the red-headed girl +passionately, “they’d shove just like that to see me hanged. Ugh! +What’s the matter with us?” + +She eyed with an expression of profound distaste the plump lady just +beyond her, conscientiously eating stuffed eggs out of a shoe box. So +smug, so virtuous, so pompadoured and lynx-eyed—— Her eyes moved +hastily on to the pair of giggling flappers exchanging powder puffs +and anecdotes over a box of maple caramels; on to the round-shouldered +youth with the unattractive complexion and unpleasant tie; on to the +pretty thing with overflushed cheeks and overbright eyes above her +sable scarf and beneath her Paris hat. The red-headed girl wrenched +her eyes back to the empty space where there sat, tranquil and aloof, +the memory of the prisoner at the bar. + +It was good to be able to forget those hot, hungry, cruel faces, so +sleek and safe and triumphant, and to remember that other face under +the shadow of the small felt hat, cool and controlled and gay—yes, +gay, for all the shadows that beset it. Only—what thoughts were +weaving behind that bright brow, those steady lips? Thoughts of +terror, of remorse, of bitterness and horror and despair? If you were +strong enough to strike down a laughing girl who barred your path, you +would be strong enough to keep your lips steady, wouldn’t you? + +The red-headed girl stared about her wildly; she felt suddenly small +and cold and terrified. Where was the reporter? What a long time—— Oh, +someone had opened a window. It was only the wind of autumn that was +blowing so cold then, not the wind of death. What was it those little +newsboys were calling outside, yelping like puppies in the gray +square? + +“Extra Extra! All about the mysterious——” + +“Well,” said the reporter’s voice at her elbow, tense with some +suppressed excitement, “this is the time he did it! No enterprising +Filipino and housemaid around this time. Read that and weep!” + +Across the flimsy sheet of the Redfield _Home News_ it ran in letters +three inches high: Ex-fiancé of Murdered Girl Blows Out Brains. +Prominent Clubman Found Dead in Garden at Eleven Forty-five This +Morning. + +“I’ve got a peach of a story started over the wires this minute,” said +the reporter exultantly. “Here, boy, rush this stuff and beat it back +for more. I couldn’t get your sandwich.” + +“Well,” said the red-headed girl in a small awed voice—“well, then, +that means that he did it himself, doesn’t it? That means that he +couldn’t stand it any longer because he killed her, doesn’t it?” + +“Or it means that he good and damn well knew that Susan Ives did it,” +muttered the reporter, shaken from Olympian calm to frenzied activity. +“Here, boy! Boy! Hi, you, rush this—and take off the ear muffs. It’s a +hundred-to-one bet that he knew that Sue’d done it, and that he’d as +good as put the knife in her hand by telling her where, when, and why +it should be managed. . . . Here, boy!” + +“He didn’t!” said the red-headed girl fiercely. “He didn’t know it. +How could——” + +“The Court!” sang Ben Potts. + +“How could he know whether she——” + +“Silence!” intoned Ben reprovingly. + +Mr. Orsini and Mr. Lambert were both heading purposefully for the +witness box. + +“Now you’ve just told us, Mr. Orsini, that you were able to see Mrs. +Ives’s face when you looked down from your window in the garage as +clearly as you see mine. Can you give us an idea of the approximate +distance from the garage to the house?” + +“Positive. The distance from the middle of the garage door to the +middle of the front porch step, it is”—he glanced earnestly at a small +slip of paper hitherto concealed in one massive paw, and divulged a +portion of its contents to his astounded interrogator—“it is +forty-seven feet five inches and one half inch.” + +“What?” + +Mr. Orsini contemplated with pardonable gratification the unfeigned +stupor that adorned the massive countenance now thrust incredulously +forward. “Also I can now tell you the space between the front gate and +the door—one hunnerd forty-three feet and a quarter of a inch,” he +announced rapidly and benevolently. “Also from the fence out to the +road—eleven feet nine inch and a——” + +Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash over the enraptured roar that +swept the courtroom. “One more demonstration of this kind and I clear +the Court. This is a trial for murder, not a burlesque performance. +You, sir, answer the questions that are put to you, when they are put. +What’s that object in your hand?” + +Mr. Orsini dangled the limp yellow article hopefully under the judge’s +fine nose. “The instrument with which I make the measure,” he +explained, all modest pride. “What you call a measure of tape. The +card on which I make the notes as well.” + +Judge Carver schooled his momentarily shaken countenance to its +customary rigidity and turned a lion tamer’s eye on the smothered +hilarity of the press. The demoralized Lambert pulled himself together +with a mighty effort; a junior counsel emitted a convulsive snort; +only Mr. Farr remained entirely unmoved. Pensive, nonchalant and +mildly sardonic, he bestowed a perfunctory glance on the measure of +tape and returned to a critical perusal of some notes of his own, +which he had been studying intently since he had surrendered his +witness to his adversary. The adversary, his eyes still bulging, +returned once more to the charge. + +“May I ask you what caused you to burden yourself with this invaluable +mass of information?” + +“Surest thing you may ask. I do it because me, I am well familiar with +the questions what all smart high-grade lawyers put when in the +court—like, could you then tell us how high were those steps, and how +many were those minutes, and how far were those walls—all things like +that they like to go and ask, every time, sure like shooting.” + +“I see. A careful student of our little eccentricities. How has it +happened that your crowded life has afforded you the leisure to make +so exhaustive a study of our habits?” + +“Once again, more slow?” suggested the student affably. + +“How have you happened to become so familiar with court life?” + +“Oh, me, I am not so familiar with it as that. Once-twice—that is +enough for one who know how to use his eyes and ear—more is not +necessary.” + +“No, as you say, once or twice ought to be enough; it’s a pity that +you’ve found it necessary to extend your experience. Orsini, have you +ever been in jail?” + +“Who—me?” The glittering smile with which Mr. Orsini was in the habit +of decorating his periods was not completely withdrawn, but it became +slightly more reticent. His lambent eyes roved reproachfully in the +direction of Mr. Farr, who seemed more absorbed than ever in his +notes. “In what kind of a jail you mean?” + +Mr. Lambert looked obviously disconcerted. “I mean jail—any kind of a +jail.” + +“Was it up on a hill, perhaps, this jail?” inquired his victim +helpfully. + +“On a hill? What’s that got to do with it? How should I know whether +it was on a hill?” + +“A high hill, mebbe, with trees all about it?” Once more Orsini’s +hands were eloquent. + +“All right, all right, were you ever in a jail on a hill with trees +around it?” + +Orsini gazed blandly into the irate and contemptuous countenance +thrust toward him. “No, sair,” he replied regretfully. “If that jail +was up on a hill with trees around it, then I was not in that jail.” + +Once more the courtroom, reckless of the gavel, yielded to helpless +and hilarious uproar, and for this time they were spared. One look at +Mr. Lambert’s countenance, a full moon in the throes of apoplexy, had +undermined even Judge Carver’s iron reserves. The gavel remained idle +while he indulged himself in a severe attack of coughing behind a +large and protective handkerchief. The red-headed girl was using a +more minute one to mop her eyes when she paused, startled and +incredulous. Across the courtroom, Patrick and his wife Susan were +laughing into each other’s eyes, for one miraculous moment the gay and +care-free comrades of old; for one moment—and then, abruptly, memory +swept back her lifted veil and they sat staring blankly at the +dreadful havoc that lay between them, who had been wont to seek each +other in laughter. Slowly, painfully, Sue Ives wrenched her eyes back +to their schooled vigilance, and after an interminable breath, Pat +Ives turned his haunted ones back to the window, beyond which the sky +was still blue. Only in that second’s wait the red-headed girl had +seen the dark flush sweep across his pallor, and the hunger in those +imploring eyes, frantic and despairing as those of a small boy who had +watched a beloved hand slam a heavy door in his face. + +“Why, he loves her!” thought the red-headed girl. “He loves her +dreadfully!” Those few scattered seconds when laughter and hope and +despair had swept across a court—how long—how long they seemed! And +yet they would have scantily sufficed to turn a pretty phrase or a +platitude on the weather. They had just barely served to give the +portly Lambert time to recover his breath, his voice, and his venom, +all three of which he was now proceeding to utilize simultaneously and +vigorously. + +“I see, I see. You’re particular about your jails—like them in +valleys, do you? Now be good enough to answer my question without any +further trifling.” + +“What question is that?” + +“Have you ever been in jail?” + +Mr. Orsini’s expression became faintly tinged with caution, but its +affability did not diminish. “When?” he inquired impartially. + +“When? Any time! Will—you—answer—my—question?” + +Thus rudely adjured, his victim yielded to the inevitable with +philosophy, humour, and grace. “Not any time—no, no! That is too +exaggerate’. But sometimes—yes—I do not deny that sometimes I have +been in jail.” + +Under the eyes of the entranced spectators, Mr. Lambert’s rosy jowls +darkened to a fine, deep, full-bodied maroon. “You don’t deny it, hey? +Well, that’s very magnanimous and gratifying—very gratifying indeed. +Now will you continue to gratify us by telling us just why you went to +jail?” + +Mr. Orsini dismissed his penal career with an eloquent shrug. “Ah, +well, for what thing do you not go to jail in these days? If you do +not have money to pay for fine, it is jail for you! You drink beer +what is two and three quarter, you shake up some dice where you think +nobody care, you drive nine and one-half mile over a bridge where it +say eight and one half——” + +“That will do, Orsini. In 1911 did you or did you not serve eight +months in jail for stealing some rings from a hotel room?” + +“Ah, that—that is one dirty lie—one dirty plant is put on me! I get +that——” + +From under the swarthy skin of the erstwhile suave citizen of the +world there leaped, sallow with fury, livid with fear, the Calabrian +peasant, ugly and vengeful, chattering with incoherent rage. Lambert +eyed him with profound satisfaction. + +“Yes, yes—naturally. It always is. Very unfortunate; our jails are +crowded with these errors. It’s true, too, isn’t it, Orsini, that less +than three weeks before the murder you told Mr. Bellamy that the +reason you hadn’t asked your little Milanese friend to marry you was +that you couldn’t afford to buy her an engagement ring?” + +“You—you——” + +“Just one moment, Orsini.” The prosecutor’s low voice cut +sharply across the thick, violent stammering. “Don’t answer that +question. . . . Your Honour, I once more respectfully inquire as to +whether this is the trial of Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives or of my +witnesses, individually and en masse?” + +“And the Court has told you once before that it does not reply to +purely rhetorical questions, Mr. Farr. You are perfectly aware as to +whose trial this is, and while the Court is inclined to agree as to +the impropriety of the last question, it does not believe that it is +in error in stating that it is some time since you have seen fit to +object to any of the questions put by Mr. Lambert to your witness.” + +“Your Honour is quite correct. It being my profound conviction that I +have an absolutely unshakable case, I have studiously refrained from +injecting the usual note of acrimonious bickering into these +proceedings that is supposed to be the legal prerogative. This kind of +thing causes me profoundly to regret my forbearance, I may state. +About two out of three witnesses that I’ve put on the stand have been +practically accused of committing or abetting this murder. Whether +they’re all supposed to be in one gigantic conspiracy or to have +played lone hands is still a trifle hazy, but there’s no doubt +whatever about the implications. Miss Page, Miss Cordier, Mr. Farwell, +Mr. Ives, Mr. Orsini—it’ll be getting around to me in a minute.” + +“I object to this, Your Honour, I object!” The choked and impassioned +voice of Mr. Dudley Lambert went down before the clear, metallic clang +of the prosecutor’s, roused at last from lethargy. + +“And I object, too—I object to a great many things! I object to the +appalling gravity of a trial for murder being turned into a farce by +the kind of thing that’s been going on here this morning. I’m entirely +serious in saying that Mr. Lambert might just as well select me as a +target for his insinuations. I used to live in Rosemont. I have a good +sharp pocket knife—my wife hasn’t a sapphire ring to her name—I’ve +been arrested three times—twice for exceeding a speed limit of +twenty-two miles an hour and once for trying to reason with a traffic +cop who had delusions of grandeur and a——” + +“That will do, Mr. Farr.” There was a highly peremptory note in Judge +Carver’s voice. “The Court has exercised possibly undue liberality in +permitting you to extend your observations on this point, because it +seemed well taken. It does not believe that you will gain anything by +further elaboration. Mr. Lambert your last question is overruled. Have +you any further ones to put to the witness?” + +Mr. Lambert, looking a striking combination of a cross baby and a +bulldog, did not take these observations kindly. “Am I denied the +opportunity of attacking the credibility of the extraordinary +collection of individuals that Mr. Farr chooses to produce as +witnesses?” + +“You are not. In what way does your inquiry as to Mr. Orsini’s +inability to provide a young woman with an engagement ring purport to +attack his credibility?” + +“It purports to show that Orsini had a distinct motive for robbery +and——” + +“Precisely. And precisely for that reason, since Mr. Orsini is not on +trial here, the Court considers the question irrelevant and +incompetent, as well as improper. Have you any further ones to put?” + +“No.” The rage that was consuming the unchastened Mr. Lambert choked +his utterance and bulged his eyes. “No further questions. May I have +an exception from Your Honour’s ruling?” + +“Certainly.” + +Orsini, stepping briskly down from the witness box, lingered long +enough to bestow on his late inquisitor a glance in which knives +flashed and blood flowed freely—a glance which Mr. Lambert, goaded by +frustrated rage, returned with interest. The violence remained purely +ocular, however, and the obviously disappointed spectators began to +crawl laboriously to their feet. + +“Call for Turner.” + +“Joseph Turner!” + +A bright-eyed, brown-faced, friendly-looking boy swung alertly into +the box and fired a pair of earnest young eyes on the prosecutor. + +“What was your occupation on June nineteenth of this year, Mr. +Turner?” + +“I was bus driver over the Perrytown route.” + +“Still are?” + +“No, sir; driving for the same outfit, but over a new route—Redfield +to Glenvale.” + +“Ever see these before, Turner?” + +The prosecutor lifted a black chiffon cape and lace scarf from the +pasteboard box beside him and extended them casually toward the +witness. + +The boy eyed them soberly. “Yes, sir.” + +“When?” + +“Two or three times, sir; the last time was the night of the +nineteenth of June.” + +“At what time?” + +“At about eight-thirty-five.” + +“Where did you pick Mrs. Bellamy up?” + +“At about a quarter of a mile beyond her house, toward the club. +There’s a bus stop there, and she stepped out from some deep shadows +at the side of the road and signalled me to stop.” + +“Did you know Mrs. Bellamy by name at that time?” + +“No, sir; I found out later. That’s when I learned where her house was +too.” + +“Was yours the first bus that she could have caught?” + +“If she missed the eight o’clock bus. Mine was the next.” + +“Did anything particularly draw your attention to her?” + +“Yes, sir. She had her face all muffled up in her veil, the way she +always did, but I specially noticed her slippers. They were awfully +pretty shiny silver slippers, and when I let her out at the corner +before Orchards it was sort of muddy, and I thought they sure were +foolish little things to walk in, but that it was a terrible pity to +spoil ’em like that.” + +“How long did it take you to cover the distance between the point from +which you picked Mrs. Bellamy up to the point at which you set her +down?” + +“About eight minutes, I should say. It’s a little over two +miles—nearer two and a half, I guess.” + +“Did she seem in a hurry?” + +“Yes, sir, she surely did; when she got out at the Orchards corner she +started off almost at a run. I pretty nearly called to her to look out +or she’d trip herself, but then I decided that it wasn’t none of my +business, and of course it wasn’t.” + +“How do you fix the date and the time, Turner?” + +“Well, that’s easy. It was my last trip that night to Perrytown, see? +And about the date, next morning I saw how there had been the—a—well, +a murder at Orchards, and I remembered her and those silver slippers, +and that black cloak, so I dropped in at headquarters to tell ’em what +I knew—and it was her all right. They made me go over and look at her, +and I won’t forget that in a hurry, either—no, sir.” + +The boy who had driven her to Orchards set his lips hard, turning his +eyes resolutely from the little black cloak. “I got ’em to change my +route the next day,” he said, his pleasant young voice suddenly +shaken. + +“You say that you had driven her over several times before?” + +“Well, two or three times, I guess—all in that last month too. I only +had the route a month.” + +“Same time—half-past eight?” + +“That’s right—eight-thirty.” + +“Anything in particular call your attention to her?” + +“Well, I should think she’d have called anyone’s attention to her,” +said Joe Turner gently. “Even all wrapped up like that, she was +prettier than anything I ever saw in my whole life.” And he added, +more gently still: “About twenty times prettier.” + +The prosecutor stood silent for a moment, letting the hushed voice +evoke once more that radiant image, lace-scarfed, silver-slippered, +slipping off into the shadows. “That will be all,” he said. +“Cross-examine.” + +“No questions.” Even Lambert’s voice boomed less roundly. + +“Next witness—Sergeant Johnson.” + +“Sergeant Hendrick Johnson!” + +Obedient to Ben Potts’s lyric summons, a young gentleman who looked +like a Norse god inappropriately clothed in gray whipcord and a Sam +Browne belt strode promptly down the aisle and into the witness box. + +“Sergeant Johnson, what was your occupation on the nineteenth of June, +1926?” + +“State trooper—sergeant.” + +“When did you first receive notification of the murder at Orchards?” + +“At a little before ten on the morning of the twentieth of June. I’d +just dropped in at headquarters when Mr. Conroy came in to report what +he’d discovered at the cottage.” + +“Please tell us what happened then.” + +“I was detailed to accompany Mr. Dutton, the coroner, Dr. Stanley and +another trooper, Dan Wilkins, to the cottage. Mr. Dutton took Dr. +Stanley along with him in his roadster, and Wilkins rode with me in my +side car. We left headquarters at a little after ten and got to the +cottage about quarter past.” + +“Just one moment. Do I understand that the state troopers have +headquarters in Rosemont?” + +“That’s correct, sir.” + +“Of which you are in charge?” + +“That’s correct too.” + +“Who had the key to the cottage?” + +“I had it; Mr. Conroy had turned it over to me. I unlocked the door of +the cottage myself, and we all went in together.” The crisp, assured +young voice implied that a murder more or less was all in the day’s +work to the state police. + +“Did you drive directly up to the cottage door?” + +“No; we left the motorcycle and the car just short of the spot where +the little dirt road to the cottage hits the gravel road to the main +house and went in on foot, using the grass strip that edges the road.” + +“Any special reason for that?” + +“There certainly was. We didn’t want to mix up footprints and other +marks any more than they’d been mixed already.” + +“What happened after you got in the house?” + +“Well, Mr. Dutton and the doctor took charge of the body, and we +helped them to move it into the dining room across the hall, after a +careful inspection had been made of the position of the body. As a +matter of fact, a chalk outline was made of it for further analysis, +if necessary, and I took a flash light or so of it so that we’d have +that, too, to check up with later. I helped to carry the body to the +other room and place it on the table, where it was decided to keep it +until the autopsy could be performed. I then locked the door of the +parlour so that nothing could be disturbed there, put the key in my +pocket, and went out to inspect the marks in the dirt road. I left Mr. +Dutton and Dr. Stanley with the body and sent Wilkins down the road to +a gas station to telephone Mr. Bellamy that his wife had been found in +the cottage. There was no telephone in the cottage, and the one at the +main house had been disconnected.” + +“Sergeant, was Mr. Bellamy under suspicion at the time that you +telephoned him?” + +“I didn’t do the telephoning,” corrected Sergeant Johnson +dispassionately; and added more dispassionately still; “Everyone was +under suspicion.” + +“Mr. Bellamy no more than another?” + +“What I said was,” remarked the sergeant with professional reticence, +“that everyone was under suspicion.” + +Mr. Farr met the imperturbable blue eye of his witness with an +expression in which irritation and discretion were struggling for +supremacy. Discretion triumphed. “Did you discover any tracks on the +cottage road?” + +“I surely did.” + +“Footprints?” + +“No; there were some prints, but they were too cut up and blurred to +make much out of. What I found were tire tracks.” + +“More than one set?” + +“There were traces of at least four sets, two of them made by the same +car.” + +“All equally distinct?” + +“No, they varied considerably. The ground in the cottage road is of a +distinctly clayey character, which under the proper conditions would +act almost as a cast.” + +“What would be a proper condition?” + +“A damp state following a rainstorm, followed in turn by sufficient +fair weather to permit the impression to dry out.” + +“Was such a state in existence?” + +“In one case—yes. There was a storm between one and three on the +afternoon of the nineteenth. We’ll call the tire impressions A, B 1 +and 2, and C. A showed only very vague traces of a very broad, massive +tire on a heavy car. It was almost obliterated, showing that it must +have been there either before or during the downpour.” + +“Would those tracks have corresponded to the ones on Mr. Farwell’s +car?” + +“There were absolutely no distinguishing tire marks left; it could +have been Mr. Farwell’s or any other large car. C had come much later, +when the ground had had time to dry out considerably. They were the +traces of a medium-sized tire on fairly dry ground. They cut across +the tracks left by both A and B.” + +“Could they have been made by Mr. Conroy’s car?” + +“I think that very likely they were. I checked up as well as possible +under the conditions, and they corresponded all right.” + +“What about the B impressions?” + +“Both the B impressions were as sharp and distinct as though they had +been made in wax. They were made by the same car; judging from the +soil conditions, at an interval of an hour or so. We made a series of +tests later to see how long it retained moisture.” + +“Of what nature were these impressions, sergeant?” + +“They were narrow tires, such as are used on the smaller, lighter +cars,” said Sergeant Johnson, a slight tinge of gravity touching the +curtness of his unemotional young voice. “Two of the tires—the ones on +the front right and rear left wheels had the tread so worn off that it +would be risky to hazard a guess as to their manufacture. The ones on +the front left and rear right were brand new, and the impressions in +both cases were as clear cut as though you’d carved them. The +impressions of B 2 were even deeper than B 1, showing that the car +must have stood much longer at one time than at another. We +experimented with that, too, but the results weren’t definite enough +to report on positively.” + +“What makes you so clear as to which were B 2?” + +“At one spot B 2 was superimposed on B 1 very distinctly.” + +“What were the makes of the rear right and left front tires, +sergeant?” + +“The rear right was a new Ajax tire; the front left was a practically +new Silvertown cord.” + +“Did they correspond with any of the cars mentioned so far in this +case?” + +“They corresponded exactly with the tires on Mr. Stephen Bellamy’s car +when we inspected it on the afternoon of June twentieth.” + +“No possibility of error?” + +“Not a chance,” said Sergeant Johnson, succinctly and gravely. + +“Exactly. Had the car been washed at the time you inspected it, +Sergeant?” + +“No, sir, it had not.” + +“Was there mud on the tires?” + +“Yes, but as it was of much the same character as the mud in Mr. +Bellamy’s own drive, we attached no particular importance to it.” + +“Was there any grease on the car?” + +“No, sir; we made a very thorough inspection. There was no trace of +grease.” + +“Did you find anything else of consequence on the premises, sergeant?” + +“I picked up a kind of lunch box in the shrubbery outside, and in the +dining room, on a chair in the corner, I found a black cape—chiffon, I +expect you call it—a black lace scarf and a little black silk bag with +a shiny clasp that looked like diamonds.” + +“Did you keep a list of the contents of the bag?” + +“I did.” + +“Have you it with you?” + +“I have.” + +“Let’s hear it, please?” + +“‘Contents of black purse found in dining room of Thorne Cottage, June +20, 1926,’” read Sergeant Johnson briskly, “‘One vanity case, pale +green enamel; one lip stick, same; one small green linen handkerchief, +marked Mimi; leather frame inclosing snapshot of man in tennis +clothes, inscribed For My Mimi from Steve; sample of blue chiffon with +daisies; gold pencil; two theatre-ticket stubs to Vanities, June +eighth; three letters, written on white bond paper, signed Pat.’” + +“That’s all?” + +“That’s all.” + +“Are these the articles found in the dining room, sergeant?” + +Sergeant Johnson eyed the contents of the box placed before him +somewhat cursorily. “Those are the ones.” + +“Just check over the contents of the bag, will you? Nothing missing?” + +“Not a thing.” + +“I ask to have these marked for identification and offer them in +evidence, Your Honour.” + +“No objections,” said Mr. Lambert unexpectedly. + +Mr. Farr eyed him incredulously for a moment, as though he doubted the +evidence of his ears. Then, rather thoughtfully, he produced another +object from the inexhaustible maw of his desk and poised it carefully +on the ledge under the sergeant’s nose. It was a box—a nice, shiny tin +box, painted a cheerful but decorous maroon—the kind of a box that +good little boys carry triumphantly to school, bursting with cookies +and apples and peanut-butter sandwiches. It had a neat handle and a +large, beautiful, early English initial painted on the top. + +“Did you recognize this, sergeant?” + +“Yes. It’s a lunch box that I picked up back of the shrubbery to the +left of the Orchards cottage.” + +“Had it anything in it?” + +“It was about three-quarters empty. There was a ham sandwich and some +salted nuts and dates in it, and a couple of doughnuts.” + +“What should you say that the initial on the cover represented?” + +“I shouldn’t say,” remarked the sergeant frankly. “It’s got too many +curlicues and doodads. It might be a D, or it might be P, or then +again, it mightn’t be either.” + +“So far as you know, it hasn’t been identified as anyone’s property?” + +“No, sir.” + +“It might have been left there at some previous date?” + +“Well, it might have been; but the food seemed pretty fresh, and there +were some new twigs broken off, as though someone had pressed way back +into the shrubbery.” + +“I offer this box in evidence, Your Honour, not as of any evidential +value, but merely to keep the record straight as to what was turned +over by the police.” + +“No objections,” said Mr. Lambert with that same surprising +promptitude, his eyes following the shiny box somewhat hungrily. + +“Very well, sergeant, that’s all. Cross-examine.” + +“Did you examine the portion of the drive to the rear of the cottage, +sergeant?” inquired Mr. Lambert with genial interest. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Find any traces of tires?” + +“No, sir.” + +“No further questions,” intoned Mr. Lambert mellifluously. + +Mr. Farr turned briskly to an unhappy-looking young man crouching +apprehensively in a far corner. “Now, Mr. Oliver, I’m going to get you +just to read these three letters into the record. I’m unable to do it +myself, as I’ve been subjected to considerable eye strain recently.” + +“Do I start with the one on top?” inquired the wretched youth, who +looked as though he were about to die at any moment. + +“Start with the first in order of date,” suggested Mr. Farr +benevolently. “May twenty-first, I think it is. And just raise your +voice a little so we’ll all be able to hear you.” + +“Darling, darling,” roared Mr. Oliver unbelievably, and paused, +staring about him wildly, flame coloured far beyond the roots of his +russet hair. “May twenty-first,” he added in a suffocated whisper. + + Darling, darling: + + I waited there for you for over an hour. I couldn’t believe that you + weren’t coming—not after you’d promised. And when I got back and + found that hateful, stiff little note—— Mimi, how could you? You + didn’t mean it to say, “I don’t love you”? It didn’t say that, did + it? It sounded so horribly as though that was what it was trying to + say that I kept both hands over my ears all the time that I was + reading it. I won’t believe it. You do—you must. You’re the only + thing that I’ve ever loved in all my life, Mimi; I swear it. You’re + the only thing that I’ll ever love, as long as I live. + + You say that you’re frightened; that there’s been talk—oh, darling, + what of it? “They say? What say they? Let them say!” They’re a lot + of wise, sensible, good-for-nothing idiots, who haven’t anything + better to do in the world than wag their heads and their tongues, or + else they’re a pack of young fools, frantic with jealousy because + they can’t be beautiful like Mimi or lucky like Pat. If their talk + gets really dangerous or ugly we can shut them all up in ten seconds + by telling them that we’re planning to shake the dust of Rosemont + from our heels any minute, and live happy ever after in some + “cleaner, greener land.” + + Do you want me to tell them that I’ve asked you fifteen thousand and + three times to burn all our bridges and marry me, Mimi? Or didn’t + you hear me? You always look then as though you were listening to + someone else—someone with a louder voice than mine, saying “Wait—not + yet. Think again—you’ll be sorry. Be careful—be careful.” Don’t + listen to that liar, Mimi—listen to Pat, who loves you. + + To-morrow night, about nine, I’ll have the car at the back road. + I’ll manage to get away somehow, and you must too. Wear that frilly + thing that I love—you know, the green one—and the slippers with + butterflies on them, and nothing on your hair. The wickedest thing + that you ever do is to wear a hat. No, I’m wrong, you can wear + something on your hair, after all. On the two curls right behind + your ears—the littlest curls—my curls—you can wear two drops of that + stuff that smells like lilacs in the rain. And I’ll put you—and your + curls—and your slippers—and your sweetness—and your magic—into my + car and we’ll drive twenty miles away from those wagging tongues. + And, Mimi, I’ll teach you how beautiful it is to be alive and young + and in love, in a world that’s full of spring and stars and lilacs. + Oh, Mimi, come quickly and let me teach you! + + Pat. + +The halting voice laboured to an all too brief silence. Even the back +of Mr. Oliver’s neck was incandescent—perhaps he would not have flamed +so hotly if he had realized how few eyes in the courtroom were resting +on him. For across the crowded little room, Sue Ives, all her gay +serenity gone, was staring at the figure by the window with terrified +and incredulous eyes, black with tears. + +“Oh, Pat—oh, Pat,” cried those drowning eyes, “what is this that you +have done to us? Never loved anyone else? Never in all your life? What +is this that you have done?” + +And as though in answer to that despairing cry, the man by the window +half rose, shaking his head in fierce entreaty. + +“Don’t listen! Don’t listen!” implored his frantic eyes. . . . + +“Now the next one, Mr. Oliver,” said Mr. Farr. + + Rosemont, June 8th. + + Mimi darling, darling, darling: + + It’s after four o’clock and the birds in the vines outside the + window are making the most awful row. I haven’t closed my eyes yet, + and now I’m going to stop trying. What’s the use of sleeping, when + here’s another day with Mimi in it? Dawn—I always thought it was the + worst word in the English language, and here I am on my knees + waiting for it, and ranting about it like any fool—like any happy, + happy fool. + + I’m so happy that it simply isn’t decent. I keep telling myself that + we’re mad—that there’s black trouble ahead of us—that I haven’t any + right in the world to let you do this—that I’m older and ought to be + wiser. And when I get all through, the only thing I can remember is + that I feel like a kid waking up on his birthday to find the sun and + the moon and the stars and the world and a little red wagon sitting + in a row at the foot of his bed. Because I have you, Mimi, and + you’re the sun and the moon and the stars and the world—and a little + red wagon too, my beautiful love. + + Well, here’s the sun himself, and no one in Rosemont to pay any + attention to him but the milkman and me. “The sun in splendour”—what + comes after that, do you remember? Not that it makes any difference; + the only thing that makes any difference is that what will come + after that in just a few minutes will be a clock striking five—and + then six and then seven and it will be another day—another + miraculous, incredible day getting under way in a world that holds + Mimi in it. Lucky day, lucky world, lucky, lucky me, Mimi, who will + be your worshipper while this world lasts. + + Good morning, Beautiful. + + Your Pat. + +The eyes of the Court swung avidly back to the slim figure in the +space before them, but for once that bright head was bowed. Sue Ives +was no longer looking at Mimi’s worshipper. + +“And the next?” murmured Farr. + + Rosemont, June 9th. + + My little heart: + + I went to bed the minute I got home, just as I promised, but it + didn’t do much good. I did go to sleep for a bit, but it was only to + dream that you were leaning over me again with your hair swinging + down like two lovely clouds of fire and saying over and over in that + small, blessed voice—that voice that I’d strain to hear from under + three feet of sod—“It’s not a dream, love, it’s not a dream—it’s + Mimi, who’s yours and who’s sweeter than all the dreams you’ll dream + between here and heaven. Wake up. Wake up! She’s waiting for you. + How can you sleep?” And I couldn’t sleep; no, it’s no use. Mimi, how + can I ever sleep again, now that I have you? + + It wasn’t just a dream that between those shining clouds that are + your hair your eyes were bright with laughter and with tears, was + it, Mimi? No, that was not a dream. To think that anyone in the + world can cry and still be beautiful! It must be an awful temptation + to do it all the time—only I know that you won’t. Darling, don’t + cry. Even when you look beautiful and on the edge of laughter, it + makes me want to kill myself. It’s because you’re afraid, isn’t + it—afraid that we won’t be able to make a go of it? Don’t be afraid. + If you will come to me—really, forever, not in little snatched bits + of heaven like this, but to belong to me all the days of my life—if + you will believe in me and trust me, I swear that I’ll make you + happy. I swear it. + + I know that at first it may be hideously hard. I know that giving up + everything here and starting life all over somewhere with strangers + will be hard to desperation. But it will be easier than trying to + fight it out here, won’t it, Mimi? And in the end we’ll hold + happiness in our hands—you’ll see, my blessed. Don’t cry, don’t cry, + my little girl—not even in dreams, not even through laughter. + Because, you see, like the Prince and Princess in the fairy tale, + we’re going to live happy ever after. + + Your Pat. + +“That concludes the letters?” inquired Judge Carver, hopefully, his +eyes on the bowed head beneath his throne. + +“That concludes them,” said Mr. Farr, removing them deftly from the +assistant prosecutor’s palsied fingers. “And as it is close to four, I +would like to make a suggestion. The state is ready to rest its case +with these letters, but an extremely unfortunate occurrence has +deprived us so far of one of our witnesses, who is essential as a link +in the chain of evidence that we have forged. This witness was +stricken three weeks ago with appendicitis and rushed to a New York +hospital. I was given every assurance that he would be able to be +present by this date, but late last week unfavourable symptoms +developed and he has been closely confined ever since. + +“I have here the surgeon’s certificate that he is absolutely unable to +take the stand to-day, but that it is entirely possible that he may do +so by Monday. As this is Friday, therefore, I respectfully suggest +that we adjourn to Monday, when the state will rest its case.” + +“Have you any objections, Mr. Lambert?” + +“Every objection, Your Honour!” replied Mr. Lambert with passionate +conviction. “I have two witnesses myself who have come here at great +inconvenience to themselves and are obliged to return at the earliest +possible moment. What about them? What about the unfortunate jury? +What about the unfortunate defendants? I have most emphatic objections +to delaying this trial one second longer.” + +“Then I can only suggest that the trial proceed and that the state be +permitted to produce its witness as soon as is humanly possible, in +which case the defense would necessarily be permitted to produce what +witnesses it saw fit in rebuttal.” + +Mr. Lambert, still flown with some secret triumph, made an ample +gesture of condescension. + +“Very well, I consider it highly irregular, but leave it that +way—leave it that way by all means. Now, Your Honour——” + +“You say you have a certificate, Mr. Farr?” + +“Yes, Your Honour.” + +“May we have its contents?” + +“Certainly.” Mr. Farr tendered it promptly. “It’s from the chief +surgeon at St. Luke’s. As you see, it simply says that it would be +against his express orders that Dr. Barretti should take the stand +to-day, but that, if nothing unfavourable develops, he should be able +to do so by Monday.” + +“Yes. Well, Mr. Farr, if Mr. Lambert has no objections you may produce +Dr. Barretti then. You have no further questions?” + +“None, Your Honour.” + +“Very well, the Court stands adjourned until to-morrow at ten.” + +“What name did he say?” inquired the reporter in a curiously hushed +voice. “Dr. What?” + +“It sounded like Barretti,” said the red-headed girl, getting limply +to her feet. + +“The poor fool!” murmured the reporter in the same awe-stricken tones. + +“What?” + +“Lambert. Did you get that? The poor blithering fool doesn’t know who +he is and where he’s heading.” + +“Well, who is he?” inquired the red-headed girl over her shoulder +despairingly. She felt that if anything else happened she would sit on +the floor and cry, and she didn’t want to—much. + +“It’s Barretti—Gabriel Barretti,” said the reporter. “The greatest +finger-print expert in the world. Lord, it means that he must have +their—— What in the world’s the matter? D’you want a handkerchief?” + +The red-headed girl, nodding feebly, clutched at the large white +handkerchief with one hand and the large blue serge sleeve with the +other. Anyway, she hadn’t sat on the floor. + +The fourth day of the Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER V + +“He couldn’t look so cocky and triumphant and absolutely sure of +himself as that if he didn’t actually know that everything was all +right,” explained the red-haired girl in a reasonable but tremulous +whisper, keeping an eye in desperate need of reassurance on the portly +and flamboyant Lambert, who was prowling up and down in front of the +jury with an expression of lightly won victory on his rubicund +countenance and a tie that boasted actual checks under a ruddy chin. +Every now and then he uttered small, premonitory booms. + +“He could look just exactly like that if he were a God-forsaken fool,” +murmured the reporter gloomily. “And would, and undoubtedly does. Whom +the gods destroy they first make mad. Look out, there he goes!” + +“Your Honour,” intoned Mr. Lambert with unction, “gentlemen of the +jury, I am not going to burden you with a lengthy dissertation at this +moment. In my summing up at a later time I will attempt to analyze the +fallacious and specious reasoning on which my brilliant opponent has +constructed his case, but at present something else is in my mind; or +perhaps I should be both more candid and more accurate if I say that +something else is in my heart. + +“We have heard a great deal of the beauty, the charm, the enchantment, +and the tragedy of the young woman whose dreadful death has brought +about this trial. Much stress has been laid on her appalling fate and +on the pitiful horror of so much loveliness crushed out in such a +fashion. It is very far from my desire to deny or to belittle any of +this. Tragic and dreadful, indeed, was the fate of Madeleine Bellamy; +not one of us can think of it unmoved. + +“But, gentlemen, when its horror grips you most relentlessly, I ask +you to think of another young woman whose fate, to my mind, has been +bitterer still; who, many times in these past few days, would have +been glad to change places with that dead girl, safe and quiet now, +beyond the reach of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that +have been raining about her own unprotected head. I ask you to turn +your thoughts for one moment to the fate of Susan Ives, the prisoner +at the bar. + +“Not so many weeks ago there is not one of you who would not have +thought her an object of profound envy. Sue Ives, the adored, the +cherished, the protected; Sue Ives, moving safe and happy through a +world of flowers and blue skies that held no single cloud; Sue Ives, +the lucky and beloved, the darling of the gods. There she sits before +you, gentlemen, betrayed by her husband, befouled by every idle tongue +that wags, torn from her children and her home, pilloried in every +journal in the land from the most lofty and impeccable sheet to the +vilest rag in Christendom, branded before the world as that darkest, +most dreadful and most abject of creatures—a murderess. + +“A murderess! This girl, so loyal and generous and honest that those +who knew her believed her to be of somewhat finer clay than the rest +of this workaday world; so proud, so sensitive and so fastidious that +those who loved her would rather a thousand times have seen her dead +in her grave than subjected to the ugly torture that has been her lot +these past few days. What of her lot, gentlemen? What of her fate? +What has brought her to this dreadful pass? Lightness or disloyalty or +bad repute or reckless indiscretion or evil intent? Your own wife, +your own daughter, your own mother, could not be freer of any taint of +scandal or criticism. + +“Accusations of this nature have been made in this court, but not by +me and not against her. Of these sins, Madeleine Bellamy, the girl for +whom all your pity has been invoked, has stood accused. She is dead. +I, too, invoke your pity for her and such forgetfulness as you can +mete out for the folly and dishonour that led to her death. For if she +had not gone to that cottage to meet her lover, death would not have +claimed her. She met death because she was there, alone and +unprotected. Whether she was struck down by a thief, a blackmailer, an +old lover or a new one, is not within my province to prove or in yours +to decide. My intent is only to show you that so slight is the case +against Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy that a stronger one could be +made out against half a dozen people that have been paraded before you +in order to defame her. + +“What is this case against her? I say against her, because if you +decide that Mrs. Ives is not guilty, the case against Stephen Bellamy +collapses automatically. It is not the contention of the state that he +committed this crime. The evidence produced shows, according to the +state, that he and Mrs. Ives were together throughout the evening, at +her instigation. If she had nothing whatever to do with the crime, it +follows inevitably that neither did her companion. I again, therefore, +turn your attention to Mrs. Ives, and ask you once more what is this +case against her? + +“This: You are asked to believe that this girl—many of you have +daughters older than Susan Ives—that this girl, gently born, gently +bred and gentle-hearted, upon receiving information from a +half-intoxicated and infatuated suitor of Mimi Bellamy’s that Mimi was +carrying on an affair with her husband, Patrick Ives, dined peacefully +at home, rose from the table, summoned Mrs. Bellamy’s adoring husband +to meet her down a back lane, procured a knife from a table in her +husband’s study and straightway sallied forth to remove the +encumbrance that she had discovered in her smooth path by the simple +and straightforward process of murdering her—murder, you note, +premeditated, preconceived, and prearranged. Roughly, an hour and a +half elapsed between the time that Susan Ives set out and the moment +that the scream fixes as that of the murder. + +“Presumably some of that time was occupied in convincing Mr. +Bellamy of the excellence of her scheme and some of it in idle +conversation—the time must have been occupied somehow; the actual rise +and fall of a knife is no lengthy matter. Mr. Bellamy, we gather, was +so entertained by the death of his idolized wife that he yielded to +hearty laughter—Mr. Thorne has told you of that laugh, I believe. + +“The lamp has gone out, so in total darkness they proceed to collect +the jewels and wait peacefully until Mr. Thorne has put his keys under +the doormat—the door is locked; they have thought of everything, you +see—when once more they venture forth, enter an automobile that has +the convenient quality of becoming either visible or invisible as +serves them best, and return promptly and speedily to the house of Mr. +Stephen Bellamy. + +“Possibly you wonder why they do that. It is barely ten, and almost +anyone might see them, thereby destroying their carefully concocted +movie alibi, but possibly they thought that the Bellamy house would be +a nice place to hide the pearls and talk things over. We are left a +trifle in the dark as to their motives here, but undoubtedly the +prosecutor will clear all that up perfectly. Ten minutes later they +come out, and still together start off once more, presumably in the +direction of Mrs. Ives’s home so that everyone there can get a good +look at them together, while Mrs. Ives still has the knife and the +bloodstained coat in her possession. There they part, Mrs. Ives to +straighten up a little before she takes some fruit up to Mrs. Daniel +Ives, Mr. Bellamy presumably to return to his own home and a night of +well-earned repose. + +“In the morning Mrs. Ives rises sufficiently early to pack up the +blood drenched garments in a large box for the Salvation Army; she +turns them over to a maid to turn over to a chauffeur, requests a +fresh pair of gloves and sets forth to early church—the service which +she has attended every Sunday of her life since she was a mite of six, +with eyes too big for her face, hair to her waist, skirts to her knees +and little white cotton gloves that would fit a doll if it weren’t +too big. The prosecutor leaves her there telling her God that last +night she had had to kill a girl who was liable to make a nuisance +of herself before she got through by cutting down Sue Ives’s +monthly income considerably. Of course it all may seem a trifle +incomprehensible to us, but it’s undoubtedly perfectly clear to God +and the prosecutor. + +“I think that that is a fair and accurate statement of the state’s +case, though Mr. Farr undoubtedly can—and will—make it sound a great +deal more plausible when he gets at it. But that’s what it boils down +to, and all the specious reasoning and forensic and histrionic ability +in the world won’t make it one atom less preposterous. That’s their +case. + +“And on what evidence are we asked to believe this incredible farrago? +I’ll tell you. We have the word of a hysterical and morbidly sensitive +girl with a supposed grievance that she overheard a telephone +conversation; we have the word of a vindictive young vixen who is +leading nothing more nor less than a life of sin that she planted a +note and failed to find it again; we have the disjointed narrative of +an unfortunate fellow so far gone in drink, and love that he was half +out of his senses at the time that he is supposed to be reporting +these crucial events and has since blown his brains out; we have the +word of an ex-jailbird who might well have more reasons than one for +directing the finger of suspicion at a convenient victim; we have a +trooper, eager for credit and prominence, swearing to you that he can +as clearly recognize and identify a scrap of earth bearing the imprint +of a bit of tire as though it were the upturned countenance of his +favourite child—a bit of tire, gentlemen, which undoubtedly has some +hundreds of millions of twins in this capacious country of ours. + +“It is on this evidence, fantastic though it may sound, that my +distinguished adversary is asking you to condemn to death a gentle +lady and an honest gentleman. On the testimony of a neurotic, a love +thief, a jailbird, and a drunkard! These are plain words to describe +plain truths. I propose to produce witnesses of unimpeachable record +to substantiate every one of them. + +“It is, frankly, a great temptation to me to rest the case for the +defense here and now; because in all honesty I cannot see how it would +take any twelve sane men in this country five consecutive minutes to +reach and return a verdict of not guilty. Remember, it does not +devolve on me to prove that Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy are +innocent, but on the state to prove that they are guilty. If they have +proved that these two are guilty, then they have proved that I am. I +believe absolutely that one is not more absurd than the other. + +“On that profound conviction I could, I say, rest this case. But there +is a bare possibility that some minor aspects of the case are not so +clear to you as they are to me—there is a passionate desire on my part +to leave not one stone unturned in behalf of either of my clients—and +there is also, I confess, a very human desire to confront and confound +some of the glib crew who have mounted the steps to that stand day +after day somewhat too greatly concerned to swear away two human +lives. It will not be a lengthy and exhausting performance, I promise. +Four or five honest men and women will suffice, and you will find, I +believe, that truth travels as fast as light. + +“Nor shall I produce the hundreds upon hundreds of character witnesses +that I could bring before you to tell you that of all the fine and +true and gallant souls that have crossed their paths, the most +gallant, the finest and the truest is the girl that this very +sovereign state is asking you to brand as a murderess. In the case of +the People versus Susan Ives I shall call only one character witness +into that box—Susan Ives herself. And if, after you have listened to +her, after you have seen her, after you have heard her tell her story, +you do not believe that society and the law and the people themselves, +clamouring for a victim, have made a frightful and shocking error, it +will be because I am not only a bad lawyer but a bad prophet as well. +Gentlemen, it is my profound and solemn conviction that whatever I may +be as a lawyer, I am in very truth a good prophet!” + +“I don’t believe he’s a bad lawyer,” said the red-headed girl +breathlessly. “He’s a good lawyer. He is! He makes everyone see just +how ridiculous the case against them is. That’s being a good lawyer, +isn’t it. That’s making a good speech, isn’t it? That’s——” + +“He’s a pompous old jackass,” said the reporter unkindly. “But he +loves his Sue, and he did just a little better than he knows how. Not +so good at that either. You don’t make a case ridiculous by jeering at +it. If——” + +“Call Mrs. Platz!” boomed the oblivious object of his strictures. + +“Mrs. Adolph Platz!” + +Mrs. Platz, minute and meek, with straw-coloured hair and +straw-coloured lashes and a small pink nose in a small white face, +advanced toward the witness stand with no assurance whatever. + +“Mrs. Platz, what was your position on June 19, 1926?” + +“I was chambermaid-waitress with Mrs. Alfred Bond at Oyster Bay.” + +“Had you been formerly in the employ of Mrs. Patrick Ives?” + +“Yes, sir, I was, for about six months in 1925. I just did chamber +work there, though.” + +“Was your husband there at the time?” + +“Yes, sir. Adolph was there as what you might call a useful man. He +helped with the furnace and garden and ran the station wagon—things +like that.” + +“How long had you been married?” + +“Not very long, sir—not a year, quite.” Mrs. Platz’s lips were +suddenly unsteady. + +“Mrs. Platz, why did you leave Mrs. Ives’s employ?” + +“Do I have to answer that, sir?” + +“I should very much like to have you answer it. Was it because you +were discontented with your work?” + +“Oh, no, indeed, it wasn’t that; nobody in this world could want a +kinder mistress than Mrs. Ives. It was because—it was because of +Adolph.” + +“What about Adolph, Mrs. Platz?” + +“It was because——” She shook her head despairingly, fighting down the +shamed, painful flush. “I don’t like talking about it, sir. I’m not +one for talking much.” + +“I know. Still, the only thing that can help any of us now is truth. +I’m sure that you want to help to give us that.” + +“Yes, sir, I do. All right then—it was because of the way Adolph was +carrying on with Mrs. Ives’s waitress, Melanie.” + +“How did you know that?” + +“Oh, I think they wanted me to know it,” said Adolph Platz’s wife, her +soft voice suddenly hard and bitter. “He was more like a lunatic over +her than a sane, grown-up man—he was indeed. I caught him kissing her +twice—once in the pantry and once just behind the garage. They wanted +me to catch them.” + +“What did you do when you made this discovery?” + +“The first time I didn’t do anything; I was too scared and sick and +surprised. I didn’t know men did things like that—you know, not the +men you married—not decent ones that were your brother’s best friends, +like Adolph. Other men, might, but not them. I didn’t do anything but +cry some at night. But the next time I saw them I wasn’t so surprised, +and I was mad right through to my bones. I jumped right in and told +both of them what I thought of them, and then I went right straight to +Mrs. Ives and told her I was leaving the minute she could get someone +else, and I told her why too. I told her she could keep Adolph, but +not me.” + +“What happened then?” + +“Then she sent for Melanie and Adolph and they both said it wasn’t +so.” + +“Your Honour——” + +“Never mind what anyone said, Mrs. Platz; just tell us what happened.” + +“I couldn’t do that without telling you what we were all saying, sir. +We were all talking at once, you see, and——” + +“Yes. Well, suppose you just tell us what happened as a result of this +conference?” + +“Adolph and I left, sir. I wouldn’t have stayed no matter what +happened after all that—not with me a laughingstock of all those +servants for being such a dumbbell about what was going on. And Mrs. +Ives didn’t want Adolph without me, so he came too. There wasn’t any +way Mrs. Ives could tell which of us was speaking the truth, so she +didn’t try; but all the same, she gave Melanie as good a dressing down +as——” + +“Yes, yes, exactly. Now just what happened after you left Mrs. Ives, +Mrs. Platz?” + +“Well, after that, sir, we had a pretty hard time. We weren’t happy, +you see. I couldn’t forget, and that made it bad for us; and I guess +he couldn’t either. Maybe he didn’t want to.” + +The flood gates, long closed, were open at last. The small, quiet, +tidy person in the witness box was pouring out all her sore heart, +oblivious to straining ears, conscious only of the ruddy and +reassuring countenance before her. + +“I’m sorry, Mrs. Platz, but we aren’t permitted to learn the opinions +that you formed or the conclusions that you reached. We just want the +actual incidents that occurred. Now will you just try to do that?” + +The frustrated, troubled eyes met his honestly. “Well, I’ll try, but +that sounds pretty hard, sir. What was it you wanted to know?” + +“Just what you did when you left Mrs. Ives.” + +“Yes, sir. Well, first we tried to get a job together, but we didn’t +get much of a one. It was a family of seven, and we did all the work, +and Dolph didn’t like it at all; so when spring came he decided to +take a position as gardener on Long Island at Oyster Bay, where they +wanted a single man to sleep in the garage. We fixed it up so that I +was to take a job at Locust Valley as chambermaid, and we’d spend +Sundays together, and evenings, too, sometimes. It looked like a +pretty good plan, the way things were going, and it didn’t work out so +bad until I got that letter.” + +“You haven’t told us about any letter, Mrs. Platz.” + +“No, sir, I haven’t, that’s a fact. Do you want that I should tell you +now?” + +“Well, I don’t want you to get ahead of your story. Before you go on, +I’d like to clear up one thing. What was the date on which your +husband took this position?” + +“It was the first of April, 1926. I didn’t get mine till about two +weeks later.” + +“Did you consider that he had left you for good at that time—deserted +you, I mean?” + +“I certainly didn’t understand any such a thing.” A spark shone in +Mrs. Platz’s mild eye. “He came to see me every Sunday of his life +just like clockwork, and about once a week besides.” + +“He had talked of leaving you?” + +“He certainly didn’t, except once in a while when both of us was mad +and didn’t mean anything we said—like he’d say if I didn’t quit +nagging he’d walk out and leave me cold, and I’d say nothing would +give me any more pleasure—you know, like married people do sometimes.” + +Mr. Lambert permitted himself a wintry smile. + +“Quite. Divorce was not contemplated by either of you?” + +“No, sir, we couldn’t contemplate anything like that. Divorces cost +something dreadful; and besides, we hadn’t been married no more than a +year about.” Mrs. Platz blinked valiantly through the straw-coloured +lashes, her mouth screwed to a small, watery smile. + +“So, at the time you were speaking of, your relations with your +husband were amiable enough, were they?” + +“Yes, sir; I don’t have any complaints to make. Everything was nicer +than it had been since the fall before.” + +“What changed your relations?” + +Mrs. Platz, the painful flush mounting once more, fixed her eyes +resolutely on the little patch of floor between her and Mr. Lambert. + +“It was that——” + +“Just a little louder, please. We all want to hear you, you know.” + +“It was that waitress of Mrs. Ives’. She sent for him to come back.” + +“How do you know that?” + +“Well, I’ll tell you how I know it.” Mrs. Platz leaned forward +confidentially. It was good, said her quick, eager voice—after all +these weary months of silence, it was good to find a friend to listen +to this ugly story. “This was the way: Sunday evening came around and +he hadn’t never turned up at all.” + +“Sunday of what date?” + +“Sunday, June twentieth, sir. I didn’t know what in the world to make +of it, but Tuesday morning, what do I get but a letter from Dolph +saying that——” + +“Have you still got that letter?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Have you got it with you?” + +“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Platz dipped resourcefully into her shiny black +leather bag and produced a soiled bit of blue notepaper. + +“This is the original document?” + +“Oh, yes, sir.” + +“In your husband’s handwriting?” + +“Yes.” + +“Your Honour, I ask to have this note marked for identification, after +which I offer it in evidence.” + +“Just one moment, Your Honour. May I ask on what grounds the +correspondence of the Platz family is being introduced into this +case?” + +“If Your Honour will permit me, I’ll explain why these documents are +being introduced,” remarked Mr. Lambert briskly. “They are being +introduced in order to attack the credibility of one of the +prosecutor’s star witnesses; they are being introduced in order to +prove conclusively and specifically that Miss Melanie Cordier is a +liar, a perjurer, and a despoiler of homes. I again offer this letter +in evidence—I shall have another one to offer later.” + +Judge Carver eyed the blue scrap in Mr. Lambert’s fingers with an +expression of deep distaste. “You say that this proves that the +witness was guilty of perjury?” + +“I do, Your Honour.” + +“Very well, it may be admitted.” + +Mr. Farr permitted himself a gesture of profound annoyance, hastily +buried under a resigned shrug. “Very well, Your Honour, no objection.” + +“The envelope containing this letter is postmarked Atlantic City, June +20, 1926,” remarked Mr. Lambert with unction. “It says: + + “Dear Frieda: + + “Well, you will be surprised to get this, I guess, and none too + pleased either, which I am not blaming you for. The fact is that I + have decided that we had better not see anything more of each other, + because Melanie and I, we have decided that we can’t get along any + longer without each other and so she has come to me and I have got + to look after her. + + “The reason that I did not come to see you this week-end was that I + went out to Rosemont to see her and she had got in wrong with Mrs. + Ives and she was in a dreadful state about this Mrs. Bellamy being + killed, and she is very delicate, so I am going to see that she gets + a good rest. + + “I hope that you will not feel too bad, as this is the best way. + Melanie does not know that I am writing, as she is of a very jealous + nature and does not want me writing any letters to you, so no more + after this one, but I want everything to be square and aboveboard, + because that is how I am. It won’t do you any good to look for me, + so you can save yourself the trouble, because no matter how often + you found me, I wouldn’t come back, as Melanie is very delicate and + needs me. Hoping that you have no hard feelings toward me, as I + haven’t any toward you, + + “Yours truly, + “Adolph Platz.” + +Adolph Platz’s wife sat listening to this ingenuous document with an +inscrutable expression on her small, colourless face. It was +impossible to tell whether, in spite of the amiable injunctions of the +surprising Mr. Platz, she yielded to the indulgence of hard feelings +or not. + +“Have you ever seen Mr. Platz since the receipt of this letter, Mrs. +Platz?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Did you ever try to find him?” + +“No, sir, I didn’t; but my brother Gus did. He was set on finding him, +and he spent all his holidays looking in Atlantic City. He said that +he hadn’t any hard feelings against him, but it certainly would be a +real treat to break every bone in his body.” + +“And did he?” + +“Oh, no, sir, I don’t believe that he broke any bones—not actually +broke them.” + +“I mean—did he find him?” + +“Oh, yes, sir, he found him in a very nice boarding house called +Sunrise Lodge.” + +“Yes, exactly. Was Miss Cordier with him?” + +The colourless face burned suddenly, painfully. “Yes, sir, she was.” + +“Now did you ever hear from this husband of yours again, Mrs. Platz?” + +“Yes.” + +“When?” + +“In September—over a month ago.” + +“Have you got the letter with you?” + +“I have, sir—right here.” + +“I offer this in evidence too.” + +“No objection,” said Mr. Farr bitterly. “I should appreciate the +opportunity of inspecting these letters after Court adjourns, +however.” + +“Oh, gladly, gladly,” cried Mr. Lambert, sonorously jocose. “More than +happy to afford you the opportunity. Now the envelope of this letter +is postmarked New York, September 21, 1926. It says: + + “Dear Frieda: + + “Well, this is to say that by the time you get this I will be on my + way to Canada. I have a first-class opportunity to get into a + trucking business up there that has all kinds of possibilities, if + you get what I mean, and I think it is better for all concerned if I + start in on a new life, as you might say, as the old one was not so + good. Melanie thinks so, too, as she is very sensitive about all + these things that have happened, and she thinks that it would be + much nicer to start a new life too. She will join me when she is + through being subpœnaed for this Bellamy trial, which is all pretty + fierce, wouldn’t you say so too. She doesn’t know that I am writing + you, because she is still jealous, but I thought I would like you to + know for the sake of old times, as you might say, and also so that + you can let Gus know that it won’t do him any good to go looking for + me any more. He will probably see that if you explain how I am + starting this new life in Canada. Hoping that this finds you as it + leaves me, + + “Yours truly, + “Adolph Platz.” + +“Have you ever heard from your husband since you received this letter, +Mrs. Platz?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Ever heard of him?” + +“No, sir.” + +“Thank you, that will be all. Cross-examine.” + +“No questions,” said Mr. Farr indifferently, and the small, unhappy +shadow that had been Adolph Platz’s wife was gone. + +“Well,” said the reporter judicially to the red-headed girl, “you have +to grant him one thing. He knows when to leave bad enough alone.” + +“Call Mrs. Shea.” + +“Mrs. Timothy Shea!” + +Mrs. Timothy Shea advanced belligerently toward the witness box, her +forbidding countenance inappropriately decorated with a large lace +turban enhanced with obese violets and a jet butterfly. She seated +herself solidly, thumped a black beaded bag on to the rail before her +and breathed audibly through an impressive nose. + +“Mrs. Shea, what is your occupation?” + +“I keep a boarding house in Atlantic City—known far and wide as the +decentest in that place or in any other, as well as the most genteel +and the best table.” + +“Yes. Just answer the question, please. Never mind the rest. Were +you——” + +“I’ll thank you to let me be after telling the truth,” said Mrs. Shea, +raising her voice to an unexpected volume. “It’s the truth I swore to +tell and the truth I’m after telling. The decentest and the——” + +“Yes, undoubtedly,” said Mr. Lambert hastily. “But what I wanted to +know was whether you were in court at the time that Miss Cordier was +testifying?” + +“I was there. It will be a long day before I forget that day, and you +may well say so.” + +“Had you seen her before?” + +“Had I seen her before?” inquired Mrs. Shea with a loud and +melodramatic laugh. “Every day of my life for close on three months, +mincing around with her eyes on the ground and her nose in the air as +fine as you please, more shame to her.” + +“Did you know her as Miss Cordier?” + +“I did not.” + +“Under what name did you know her?” + +“Under the name she gave me and every other living soul in the +place—the name of Mrs. Adolph Platz, that ought to have burned the +skin off her tongue to use it.” + +“She and Mr. Platz lived with you as man and wife?” + +“Well, I ought to have lived in this world long enough to know that no +man and his wife would go on forever playing the love-sick fools like +those two,” remarked Mrs. Shea grimly. “But I thought they were new +wed and would soon be over it.” + +“Was Mr. Platz staying with you regularly?” + +“Seven days and nights of the week.” + +“Did he pay you regularly?” + +“He did that!” + +“Did he seem to have a regular profession?” + +“Well, that’s all whether you’d call bootlegging a regular +profession.” + +“Now, Your Honour,” remonstrated Mr. Farr, who had been following this +absorbing recital with an air of possibly fictitious boredom, “I don’t +want to indulge in any legal hairsplitting, but surely a line should +be drawn somewhere when it comes to this type of baseless slander and +innuendo.” + +“Do I understand that you have evidence of Mr. Platz’s activities?” +inquired Judge Carver severely. + +“The evidence of two eyes and two ears and a nose,” remarked Mrs. Shea +with spirit. “Goings and comings and doings such as——” + +“That will do, Mrs. Shea. The question hardly seems material. It is +excluded. You may take your exception, Mr. Lambert.” + +Mr. Lambert, thus prematurely adjured, stared indignantly about him +and returned somewhat uncertainly to his task. + +“Is it a fact that Mr. Platz’s relationship with Miss Cordier during +their sojourn under your roof was simply that of a friend?” + +“Fact!” Mrs. Shea snorted derisively. “’Tis a black-hearted lie off a +black-hearted baggage. Friend, indeed!” + +“That will do, Mrs. Shea,” said Judge Carver ominously. “Mr. Lambert, +I request you to keep your witness in hand.” + +“It is my endeavour to do so,” replied Mr. Lambert with some sincerity +and much dignity. “I will be greatly obliged, Mrs. Shea, if you omit +any comments or characterizations from your replies. Will you be good +enough to give us the day when you first discovered that Mrs. Cordier +and Mr. Platz were not married?” + +“September seventeenth.” + +“Have you any way of fixing the date?” + +“You may well say so. Wasn’t it six years since Tim Shea died, and +didn’t that big tall Swede come roaring down there saying that the two +of them was no more married than Jackie Coogan and the Queen of Spain, +and that he was going to beat the life out of his dear brother-in-law, +Mr. Adolph Platz? And didn’t he go and do it, without so much as by +your leave or saving your presence, and in the decentest and——” + +“Madam!” Judge Carver’s tone would have daunted Boadicea. + +“And are those what you call comments and characterizations?” inquired +Mrs. Shea indignantly. “Well, God save us all!” + +“That will be all, thank you, Mrs. Shea,” said Mr. Lambert hastily. +“Cross-examine.” + +“No questions,” said Mr. Farr with simple fervour. Mrs. Shea, looking +baffled but menacing, moved forward with a majestic stride, leaving +the courtroom in a state of freely expressed delight. Across the hum +of their voices boomed Mr. Lambert’s suddenly impressive summons. + +“Mr. Bellamy, will you be good enough to take the stand?” + +Very quietly he came, the man who had been sitting there so motionless +for so many days for them to gape their fill at, moving forward now to +afford them better fare. Dark-eyed, low-voiced, courteous, and grave, +he advanced toward the place of trial with an unhurried tread. In the +lift of his head there was something curiously and effortlessly noble, +thought the red-headed girl. Murderers should not hold their heads +like that. + +“Mr. Bellamy, where were you on the night of June nineteenth at +nine-thirty o’clock?” + +The proverbial dropped pin would have made a prodigious clatter in the +silence that hovered over the waiting courtroom. + +“I was in my car on the River Road, about a mile or so from Lakedale.” + +“You were not in the neighbourhood of the Thorne estate, Orchards?” + +“Not within ten miles—twelve, perhaps, would be more accurate?” + +“Was anyone with you?” + +“Yes; Mrs. Patrick Ives was with me.” + +“You have a way of fixing the time?” + +“I have.” + +“I will ask you to do so later. Will you tell us now at what time you +left the Rosemont Country Club?” + +“At a little before six, I think. We dined at quarter to seven, and my +wife always dressed before dinner.” + +“Had you noticed Mr. Farwell in conversation with Mrs. Ives before you +left?” + +“Yes; my wife had called my attention to the fact that they seemed +deeply absorbed in a conversation on the club steps.” + +“Just how did she call your attention to it?” + +“She said, ‘Oh, look, El’s got another girl!’” + +“Did you make any comment on that?” + +“Yes; I said, ‘That’s clear gain for you, darling’——” He caught +himself up, olive skin a tone paler, teeth deep in his lip. “I said, +‘That’s clear gain for you, but a bit hard on Sue.’” + +“You were aware of Mr. Farwell’s devotion to your wife?” + +Behind Stephen Bellamy’s tragic eyes someone smiled, charming, +tolerant, ironic—and was gone. + +“It was impossible to be unaware of it. Mr. Farwell was candour itself +on the subject, even with those who would have been more grateful for +reticence.” + +“Your wife made no attempt to conceal it?” + +“To conceal it? Oh, no. There was nothing whatever to conceal; his +infatuation for Mimi was common property. She laughed about it, though +I think that sometimes it annoyed her.” + +“Did she ever mention getting a divorce in order to marry Farwell?” + +“A divorce? Mimi?” His eyes, blankly incredulous, met Mr. Lambert’s +inquiring gaze. After a moment, he said, slowly and evenly, “No, she +never mentioned a divorce.” + +“If she had asked for one, would you have granted it to her?” + +“I would have granted her anything that she asked for.” + +“But you would have been surprised?” + +Stephen Bellamy smiled with white lips. “‘Surprised’ is rather an +inadequate word.” He sought for one more adequate—failed—and dismissed +it with an eloquent motion of his hands. “I should have been +more—well, astounded than it is possible for me to say.” + +“So you had no inkling that your wife was contemplating any such +action?” + +“Not the faintest, not the——” Once more he pulled himself up, and +after a moment’s pause, he leaned forward. “That, too, sounds +ridiculously inadequate. I should like to make myself quite clear; +apparently I haven’t succeeded in doing so. I believed my wife to be +completely happy. You see, I believed that she loved me.” + +He was pale enough now to gratify the most exigent reporter of +emotions, but his pleasant, leisurely voice did not falter, and it was +the ruddy Lambert, not he, who seemed embarrassed. + +“Yes, quite so—naturally. I wished simply to establish the fact that +you were not in her confidence as to her—er—attitude toward Mr. Ives. +Now, Mr. Bellamy, I am going to ask you to tell us as directly and +concisely as possible just what happened from the time that you and +Mrs. Bellamy finished dinner that evening up to the time that you +retired for the night.” + +“I did not retire for the night.” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“I said that I did not retire for the night. Sleep was entirely out of +the question, and I didn’t care to go up to our—to my room.” + +“Naturally—quite so. I will reframe my question. Will you be good +enough to tell us what occurred on the evening of June nineteenth from +the conclusion of dinner to, say, eleven o’clock?” + +“I will do my best. I’m afraid that I haven’t an especially good +memory for details. Mimi had said on the way home from the club that +she had told the Conroys that she would join them after dinner at the +movies in Rosemont. Quite a party were going, and I asked if they were +going to stop by for her. She said no; that she had arranged to meet +them at the theatre, as there was no room in their car. I suggested +that I drive her over, and she said not to bother, as I’d have to walk +back, because she wanted to keep the car; but I told her that I didn’t +mind the walk and that I wanted to pick up some tobacco and a paper in +the village. + +“After dinner we went out to the garage together; the self-starter +hadn’t been working very well, and just as I got it started, Mimi +called my attention to the fact that one of the rear tires was flat. +She asked what time it was, and when I told her that it was five +minutes to eight, she said that there wouldn’t be time to change the +tire, but that if she hurried she could catch the Conroys and make +them give her a lift, even if they were crowded. They lived only about +five minutes from us.” + +“North of you or south of you, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“North of us—away from the village, toward the club. I wanted to go +with her, but she said that it would be awkward for me to get away if +I turned up there, and it was only a five-minute walk in broad +daylight. So then I let her go.” + +He sat silent, staring after that light swift figure, slipping farther +away from him—farther—farther still. + +“You did not accompany her to the gate?” + +Stephen Bellamy jerked back those wandering eyes. “I beg your pardon?” + +“You didn’t accompany her to the gate?” + +“No. I was looking over the tire to see whether I could locate the +damage; I was particularly anxious to get it in shape if I could, +because we were planning to motor over next day to a nursery in +Lakedale to get some things for the garden—some little lilacs and +flowering almonds and some privet for a hedge that we——” He broke off +abruptly, and after a moment said gently, “I beg your pardon; that’s +got absolutely nothing to do with it, of course. What I was trying to +explain was that I was endeavouring to locate the tire trouble. In a +minute or so I did.” + +“You ascertained its nature?” + +“Yes; there was a cut in it—a small, sharp cut about half an inch +long.” + +“Is that a usual tire injury?” + +“I am not a tire expert, but it seemed to me highly unusual. I didn’t +give it much thought, however, except to wonder what in the world I’d +gone over to cause a thing like that. I was in a hurry to get it +fixed, as I said, and I remembered that I’d seen Orsini standing by +the gate as we went by to the garage. I went out to ask him to get me +a hand, but he’d started down the road toward Rosemont. I could see +him quite a bit off, hurrying along, and I remembered that we’d given +him the evening off. So I went back to the garage, took my coat off +and got to work myself. I’d just got the shoe off when I heard——” + +“Just a minute, Mr. Bellamy. Did you see Mrs. Bellamy again when you +went to the gate?” + +“Oh, no; she’d been gone several minutes; and in any case there is a +jog in the road two or three hundred feet north of our house that +would have concealed her completely.” + +“She was headed in the general direction of Orchards?” + +“In the direction of Orchards—yes.” + +“It was along this route that the Perrytown bus passed?” + +“Yes.” + +“Please continue.” + +“As I was saying, I had succeeded in getting the shoe off when I heard +the telephone ringing in the library of our house. I dropped +everything and went in to answer it, as there was no one else in the +house.” + +“Who was on the telephone, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“It was Sue—Mrs. Ives. She wanted to know if Mimi was at home.” + +“Will you give us the conversation, to the best of your recollection?” + +“Yes. I said that she was not; that she had gone to the movies in +Rosemont with the Conroys. Mrs. Ives asked how long she had been gone. +I told her possibly ten or fifteen minutes. She asked me if I was sure +that she had gone there, and I said perfectly sure, and asked her what +in the world she was talking about. She said that it was essential to +see me at once, and asked if I could get there in ten minutes. I said +not quite as soon as that, as I was changing a tire, but that I +thought that I could make it in fifteen or twenty. She asked me to +meet her at the back road, and then—yes, then she asked me if Elliot +had said anything to me. I said, ‘Sue, for God’s sake, what’s all this +about?’ And she said never mind, to hurry, or something like that, and +rang off before I could say anything more.” + +“What did you do next, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Well, for a minute I didn’t know what to do—I was too absolutely +dumfounded by the entire performance. And then, quite suddenly, I had +a horrible conviction that something had happened to Mimi, and that +Sue was trying to break it to me. I felt absolutely mad with terror, +and then I thought that if I could get Mrs. Conroy on the telephone +there was just a chance that they mightn’t have left yet, or that +maybe some of the servants might have seen Mimi come in and could tell +me that she was all right. + +“Anyway, I rang up, and Nell Conroy answered the ’phone, and said no, +that Mimi hadn’t turned up; and that anyway they had told her not to +meet them till eight-thirty, because the feature film didn’t go on +till then. I said that Mimi must have made a mistake—that she’d +probably gone to the theatre—something—anything—I don’t remember. All +that I do remember is that I rang off somehow and stood there +literally sweating with terror, trying to think what to do next. I +remember putting my hand up to loosen my collar and finding it +drenched; I’d forgotten all about Sue. All I could remember was that +something must have happened to Mimi, and that she might need me, and +that I didn’t know where she was. And then I remembered that Sue had +told me to hurry and that she could explain everything. I tore out to +the garage and went at the new tire like a maniac; it didn’t take me +more than about eight minutes to get it on, and not more than three or +four more to get over to the back road where I was to meet Sue. I +didn’t pay much attention to speed limits.” + +“Just where is this road, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Well, I don’t know whether I can make it clear. It’s a connecting +road out of Rosemont between the main highway—the Perrytown Road, you +know—and a parallel road about five miles west, called the River Road, +that leads to Lakedale. It runs by about a quarter mile back of the +Ives’ house.” + +“Did you arrive at this back road before Mrs. Ives?” + +“No. Mrs. Ives was waiting for me when I got there. I asked her +whether she had been there long, and she said only a minute or two. I +asked her then whether anything had happened to Mimi. She said, ‘What +do you mean—happened to her?’ I said an accident of any kind, and +added that I’d been practically off my head ever since she had +telephoned, as I had called up the Conroys and discovered that she +wasn’t there. Sue said, ‘So Elliot was right!’ She had been standing +by the side of the car, talking, but when she said that, she looked +around her quickly and stepped into the seat beside me. She said, ‘I’d +rather not have anyone see us just now. Let’s drive over to the River +Road. Mimi hasn’t been hurt, Steve. She’s gone to meet Pat at +Orchards.’ I was so thunderstruck, and so immensely, so incalculably, +relieved that Mimi wasn’t hurt that I laughed out loud. That sounds +ridiculous, but it’s true. I laughed, and Sue said, ‘Don’t laugh, +Steve; Mimi’s having an affair with Pat—she’s been having one for +weeks. They don’t love us—they love each other.’ I said, ‘That’s a +damned silly lie. Who told it to you—Elliot Farwell?’” + +“Were you driving at the time that this conversation took place?” + +“Oh, yes, we were well up the back road. I’d started the minute she +asked me to. Shall I go on?” + +“Please.” + +“Do you want the whole conversation?” + +“Everything that was said as to the relations of Mrs. Bellamy and Mr. +Ives.” + +“Very well. She told me that unfortunately it was no lie; that for +several weeks they had been using the gardener’s cottage at Orchards +for a place of rendezvous, and that Farwell had even seen them going +there. I said that it made no difference to me whatever what Farwell +had seen—that I wouldn’t believe it if I had seen it myself. I asked +her if Farwell hadn’t been drinking when he told her this, and she +said yes—that unless he had been he wouldn’t have told her. I asked +her if she didn’t know that Elliot Farwell was an abject idiot about +Mimi, and she said, ‘Oh, Stephen, not so abject an idiot as you—you +who won’t even listen to the truth that you don’t want to hear.’ I +said ‘I’ll listen to anything that you want to tell me, but truth +isn’t what you hear—it’s what you believe. I don’t believe that Mimi +doesn’t love me.’ + +“She said, ‘Where is she now, Steve?’ And I said, ‘At the movies. She +probably met someone on the road who gave her a lift; or else she +decided to walk straight there, as she knew that the Conroys’ car +would be crowded.’ She said, ‘She’s not at the movies. She’s waiting +for Pat in the gardener’s cottage.’ I said, ‘And has Pat gone to meet +her?’ And she said, ‘No, this time he hasn’t gone to meet her.’ I +said, ‘What makes you think that?’ Sue said, ‘I don’t think it; I know +it.’ I said, ‘Oh, yes, he was going to Dallases to play poker, wasn’t +he?’ And after a moment she said, ‘Yes, that’s where he said he was +going. I happened to know that there’s been a slip in their plan to +meet to-night.’ + +“Then she told me that she believed they were planning to run away, +and that the reason she had wanted to see me was to tell me that she +would never give Pat a divorce as long as she lived, and she thought +if I told Mimi that before it was too late it might stop her. + +“We’d reached the River Road by this time, and were well on our way to +Lakedale, and I said, ‘Sue, we’ve talked enough nonsense for to-night; +I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’re running low on gas, and when we get +to Lakedale we’ll get some, turn around and head back for Rosemont. We +can see whether the movies are out as we go through the village, and +if they aren’t, you can come back to our house and wait for a minute +or so until Mimi gets there. Then you can put the whole thing up to +her and take your punishment like a lady when you find what a goose +you’ve been. Is that a bargain?’ And she said, ‘All right, that’s a +bargain.’ + +“We’d been driving pretty slowly, so that it was after nine when we +got into Lakedale; there were two or three people ahead of us at the +gas station—Saturday night, you know—and Sue was very thirsty, so we +asked the man at the gas pump if he could get her some water, and he +did. I noticed him particularly, because he had the reddest hair that +I’ve ever seen on a human being. We were at the station about ten +minutes, and I looked at my watch just as we left. It said twenty +minutes past nine.” + +“Was your watch correct, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Absolutely! I check it every day at the station.” + +“How long a drive is it from Lakedale to Rosemont?” + +“Under half an hour—it’s around nine miles.” + +“And to Orchards from Lakedale?” + +“It’s close to twelve—Orchards is about three miles north of +Rosemont.” + +“Quite so. Now will you be good enough to continue with your story?” + +“We hardly talked at all on our way back to Rosemont. I remember that +Sue asked whether we wouldn’t get there before the film was over, and +I said, ‘Probably.’ But as a matter of fact, we didn’t. We got to +Rosemont at about five minutes to ten, and the theatre was dark. There +were no cars in front of it and the doors were locked. I said, ‘She’ll +probably be at the house,’ and Sue said, ‘If she isn’t, I think that +it will look decidedly queer to have me dropping in there at this time +of night.’ I said, ‘There’ll be no one there to see you; Nellie’s gone +home to her mother and Orsini went to New York at eight-fifteen.’ + +“It takes only three or four minutes from the theatre to the house, +and just as we started to turn in at the gate Sue said, ‘You’re wrong; +there’s a light in the garage.’ I looked up quickly, and there wasn’t +a sign of a light. I laughed and said, ‘Don’t let things get on your +nerves, Sue; I tell you that I saw him going to the train.’ And I +helped her out of the car. There was a light in the hall, and as I +opened the door I called ‘Mimi!’ No one answered, and then I +remembered that I’d left it burning when I went out. I said, ‘Come in. +She must be over at the Conroys’. I’ll call up and get her over.’” + + +“So far so good,” said the reporter contentedly. “If Mr. Stephen +Bellamy isn’t telling the truth, he’s as fertile and resourceful a +liar as has crossed my trail in these many moons. Do you feel better?” + +“Better than best,” the red-headed girl assured him fervently. “Only I +wish that Bellamy girl had died a long time ago.” + +“Do you indeed?” + +“Yes, I do indeed—about twenty years ago, before she got out of socks +and hair ribbons and started in breaking men’s hearts. Elliot Farwell +and Patrick Ives and Stephen Bellamy—even that little bus driver +looked bewitched. Of course I ought to be sorry she’s dead—but truly +she wasn’t good for very much, was she?” + +“Not very much. The ones who are good for very much aren’t generally +particularly heartbreaking.” + +“You’d probably be as bad as any of them,” said the red-headed girl +darkly, and relapsed into silence. + +“I’m universally rated rather high on susceptibility,” admitted the +reporter with modest pride. “Did you sleep better last night?” + +“Not any better at all.” + +“Look here, are you telling me that after reducing me to a state of +apprehension that resulted in my spending six dollars and thirty-five +cents, and two hours and twenty minutes of invaluable time in a hired +flivver in order to cure you of insomnia, you went back to that gas +log of yours and worked half the night and had it again? Didn’t you +solemnly swear——” + +“I’m not ever solemn when I swear. I didn’t work after twelve. If you +paid six thousand dollars for it, it was a tremendous bargain. It was +the nicest ride I ever took. That was why I didn’t sleep.” + +“Mollifying though mendacious,” said the reporter critically. “Are you +by any chance a flirt?” + +The red-headed girl eyed him thoughtfully. After quite a lengthy +period of contemplation she seemed to arrive at a decision. “No,” she +said gravely, “I’m not a flirt.” + +“In that case,” said the reporter quite as gravely, “I’m going to get +you some lunch. And if Sue Ives decides to confess to the entire +newspaper fraternity that it really was she who did it, after all, I’m +not going to be there—I’m going to be bringing your lunch back to you +because you’re not a flirt. Do I make myself clear?” + +“Yes, thank you,” said the red-headed girl. + +She sat staring after him with round bright eyes that she was finding +increasingly difficult to keep open. What was it that she had said +that first day—that day that seemed so many, many days ago? Something +about a murder story and a love story being the most enthralling +combination in the world? Well—— The red-headed girl looked around her +guiltily, wondering if she looked as pink as she felt. It was +frightful to be so sleepy. It was frightful and ridiculous not to be +able to sleep any more because of the troubles and passions of half a +dozen people that you’d never laid eyes on in your life, and didn’t +really know from Adam and Eve—or Cain and Abel were better, perhaps. +What’s he to Hecuba or Hecuba to him? What indeed? She yawned +despairingly. + +No, but that wasn’t true—you did know them—a hundred times—a thousand +times better than people that lived next to you all the days of their +lives. That was what gave a trial its mysterious and terrible charm; +curiosity is a hunger in everyone alive, and here the sides of the +houses were lifted off and you saw them moving about as though they +were alone. You knew—oh, you knew everything! You knew that little Pat +Ives had sold papers in the streets and that he carved ships, and that +once he had played the ukulele and had taken Mimi Dawson riding on +spring nights. + +You knew that Sue Ives had gone to church in little cotton gloves when +she was six years old, and that she had a coat of cream-coloured +flannel, and poor relations in Arizona, and a rose garden beyond the +study window. You knew that Stephen Bellamy dined at quarter to seven +and had a small car, and flowering almonds in his garden, and a wife +who was more beautiful than a dream, with silver slippers and +sapphire-and-diamond rings. You knew that Laura Roberts turned down +the beds on the chambermaid’s night out and had a gentleman friend in +the village and that—and that—— + +“Wake up!” said the reporter’s voice urgently. “Here are the +sandwiches. I broke both legs trying to get back through that +crowd. . . . Oh, Lord, here’s the Court! Too late—hide ’em!” + +The red-headed girl hid them with a glance of unfeigned reluctance. + +“Mr. Bellamy,” inquired Mr. Lambert happily, “you were telling us that +you went into your house. What occurred next?” + +“I went straight to the telephone and called up Mrs. Conroy. She +answered the telephone herself, and I said, ‘Can I speak to Mimi for a +moment, Nell?’ She said, ‘Why, Steve, Mimi isn’t here. The show got +out early and we waited for about five minutes to make sure that she +wasn’t there. I thought that she must have decided not to come.’ I +said, ‘Yes, that’s what she must have decided.’ And I rang off. That +same terror had me again; I felt cold to my bones. I said. ‘She’s not +there. I was right the first time—something’s happened to her.’ Sue +said, ‘Of course she’s not there. She went to the cottage.’ I said, +‘But you say that Pat didn’t go. She’d never wait there two hours for +him. Maybe we’d better call up Dallas and make sure he’s there.’” + +The even voice hesitated—was silent. Mr. Lambert moved forward +energetically. “And what did Mrs. Ives say to that?” + +“She said—she said, ‘No, that’s no good. He’s not at the Dallases’; +he’s home.’ I said, ‘Then let’s call him up there.’ Sue said, ‘No, I’d +rather not do that. I don’t want him to know about this until I decide +what to do next. I give you my word of honour that he’s there. Isn’t +that enough?’ I said all right, then, I’d call up the police court and +the hospital to see if any accidents had been reported. I remember +that Sue said something about its being premature, but none of her +business. Neither the station nor the hospital had any information.” + +“Did you give your name?” + +“Naturally. I asked them to communicate with me at once if they heard +anything.” + +“And then what, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Then—then, after that, I don’t remember much. All the rest of it was +sheer nightmare. I do remember Sue saying that we might retrace the +route that Mimi started over toward the Conroys, on the bare chance +that she had had some kind of collapse at the roadside. But that was +no good, of course. And finally we decided that there was nothing more +to do till morning, and that I’d better get Sue home. I drove her back +to the house——” + +“To your house?” + +“No, no; the Ives’ house. I dropped her at the front gate. I didn’t +drive in. I asked her to let me know if Pat was there, and she said +that if he were she’d turn on the light in the study twice. I waited +outside by the car for what seemed a hundred years, and after a long +time the light in the study went on once, and off, and on again and +off, and I got in the car and drove away.” + +“What time was that, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“I’m not sure—about quarter to eleven, perhaps. Mrs. Ives had asked me +what time it was when we stopped at the gate. It was shortly after +ten-thirty.” + +“Did you go straight home?” + +“Not directly—no. I drove around for quite a bit, but I couldn’t +possibly tell you for how long. It’s like trying to remember things in +a delirium.” + +“But it was only after you heard that Mrs. Bellamy had not been at the +movies that you were reduced to this condition—before that everything +is quite clear?” + +“Oh, quite.” + +“And you are entirely clear that at the time fixed for the murder you +and Mrs. Ives were a good ten miles away from the gardener’s cottage +at Orchards?” + +“Nearer twelve miles, I believe.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Bellamy; that will be all. Cross-examine.” + +Mr. Farr arrived in the center of the arena where sat his victim, pale +and patient, with a motion so sudden that it suggested a leap. Not +once had he lifted his voice during that long, laboriously retrieved +narration. Now the courtroom was once more filled with its metallic +clang, arresting and disturbing. + +“Mr. Bellamy, you’ve told us that the tools in the garage belonged to +Orsini. They were perfectly accessible to anyone else, weren’t they?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“Was Mrs. Bellamy in the garage at any time before you left?” + +“Why, yes, I believe that she was. I remember meeting her as she came +into the house just as I came downstairs to dinner—I’d gone up to wash +my hands. She said she’d been out to the garage to see whether she’d +left a package with some aspirin and other things from the drug store +in the car. They weren’t there, and she asked me to call up the club +the next day to see whether she had left them there.” + +“So that she would have been perfectly able to have made that incision +of that tire herself?” + +“I should think so.” + +“She did not at any time suggest that you accompany her either to the +movies or the Conroys, did she?” + +“Oh, no.” + +“She countered such suggestions on your part, did she not, by saying +that you would have to walk back, that it would be awkward for you to +get away, and other excuses of that nature?” + +“Yes. My wife knew that the pictures hurt my eyes, and she never urged +me to——” + +“No, never mind that, Mr. Bellamy. Please confine yourself to yes or +no, whenever it is possible. It will simplify things for both of us. +It would have been entirely possible for your wife to injure that tire +in order to keep you from accompanying her, wouldn’t it?” + +“Yes.” + +“Now, Mr. Bellamy, I want to get this perfectly correctly. You claim +that at nine-thirty you were on the River Road twelve miles from +Orchards. Do you mean twelve miles by way of the back road, Rosemont +and the Perrytown Road?” + +“Yes.” + +“Retracing your way over the route that you had previously taken?” + +“Yes.” + +“But surely you know that there is another and shorter route from +Lakedale to Orchards, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“I know that there is another route—yes. I was not aware that it was +much shorter.” + +“Well, for your information I may state that it is some three miles +shorter. Can you describe this route to us?” + +“Not very well, I’m afraid. I’m not at all familiar with it. I believe +that it is the road that Mr. Thorne was speaking of having taken that +night, leading into the back of Orchards.” + +“Your supposition is entirely correct. Now, will you tell us just how +you get there?” + +“As I said, I’m not sure that I can. I believe that you continue on +down the River Road until you turn off down a rather narrow, rough +little road that leads directly to the back gates of Orchards. It’s +practically a private road, I believe, ending at the estate.” + +“What is its name?” + +“I’m not sure, but I believe that it’s something like Thorne Path, or +Road, or Lane—I’m pretty clear that it has the name Thorne in it.” + +“Oh, you’re clear about that, are you, in spite of the fact that +you’ve never been near it?” + +“You misunderstood me evidently. I never said that I had never been +near it. As a matter of fact, I have been over it several times—two or +three anyway.” + +“And yet you wish us to believe that you have no idea of either the +name or the distance?” + +“Certainly. It’s been a great many years since I’ve used it—ten, +perhaps. It was at a time that I was going frequently to Orchards, +when Mr. Thorne, Senior, was alive.” + +“And you have never used it since?” + +“No. It’s not a road that anyone would use unless he were going to +Orchards. It’s practically a blind alley.” + +“Again I must ask you to refrain from qualifications and elaborations. +‘No’ is a reply to that question. The fact remains, doesn’t it, that +here was an unobtrusive short cut to Orchards that you haven’t seen +fit to tell us about?” + +Stephen Bellamy smiled slightly—that gracious and ironic smile, so +oddly detached as to be disconcerting. “I’m afraid that I can’t answer +that either yes or no—either would be misleading. I had completely +forgotten that there was such a road.” + +“Completely forgotten it, had you? Had Mrs. Ives forgotten it too?” + +“I’m sure that I don’t know.” + +“Mr. Bellamy, is not this road, known as Thorne Lane, the one that you +and Mrs. Ives took to reach Orchards the night of the murder?” + +Mr. Bellamy frowned faintly in concentration. “I beg your pardon?” + +“Did you not use Thorne Lane to reach Orchards on the night of the +murder?” + +The frown vanished; for a moment, Mr. Bellamy looked frankly +diverted. Were these, inquired his lifted brows, the terrors of +cross-examination? “We certainly did nothing of the kind. I thought +that I’d already explained that I hadn’t been over that road in ten +years.” + +“I heard your explanation. Now, will you kindly explain to us why you +didn’t use it?” + +“Why?” inquired Stephen Bellamy blankly. + +“Why, consumed with anxiety as you were for the safety of your wife, +didn’t it occur to you to go to this gardener’s cottage, where you +were assured that she was having a rendezvous with another man?” + +“I was not assured of any such thing. I was most positively assured +that Mr. Ives had not gone there to meet her. Nor was I in anxiety at +all about my wife during my drive with Mrs. Ives. I believed that she +had gone to the movies.” + +“Very well, when you found out that she wasn’t at the movies, why +didn’t you go then to the cottage?” + +“Mrs. Ives gave me her word of honour that Mr. Ives was at home. It +seemed incredible to both of us that she would have waited there for +over two hours.” + +“Incredible to both of you that she could have waited? I thought you +wished us to believe that you had such entire confidence in her love +for you that you were perfectly convinced that she had never been near +the cottage.” + +“I”—the whitened lips tightened resolutely—“I did not believe that she +had been. It was simply a hypothesis that I accepted in desperation—a +vain attempt to believe that she might be safe, after all.” + +“It would have consoled you to know that she was safe in the +gardener’s cottage with Patrick Ives?” + +“I would have given ten years of my life to have believed that she was +safe and happy anywhere in the world.” + +“Your honour meant nothing to you?” + +“My honour? What had my honour to do with it?” + +“Do you not consider that when a man’s wife has betrayed him, his +honour is involved and should be avenged?” + +“I believe nothing of the kind. My honour is involved only by my own +actions, not by those of others.” + +“You would have let her go to her lover with your blessing?” + +Something flared in the dark eyes turned to the prosecutor’s mocking +blue ones, and died. “I did not say that,” said Stephen Bellamy +evenly. + +Judge Carver leaned forward abruptly, “Mr. Bellamy is entirely +correct,” he said sternly. “He said nothing of the kind.” + +“I regret that I seem to have misunderstood him,” said the prosecutor +with ominous meekness. + +“You would have prevented her?” + +“I would have begged her to try to find happiness with me.” + +“And if that had not succeeded, you would have prevented her?” + +“How could I have prevented her?” + +The prosecutor took a step forward and lowered his voice to that +strange pitch that carried farther than a battle cry. “Quite simply, +Mr. Bellamy. As simply as the person who drove that knife to Madeleine +Bellamy’s heart prevented her joining her lover—as simply as that.” + +Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “Let that remark be stricken +from the record!” + +Stephen Bellamy’s head jerked back, and from somewhere an arm flashed +out to catch him. He motioned it away, steadying himself carefully +with an iron grip on the witness box. His eyes, the only things alive +in his frozen face, met his enemy’s unswervingly. + +“I did not drive that knife to her heart.” His voice was as ominously +distinct as the prosecutor’s. + +“But you did not raise a hand to prevent it from striking?” + +“I could not raise a hand—I was not there.” + +“You did not raise a hand?” + +“Your Honour!” + +Bellamy’s eyes swung steadily to the clamorous and distracted Lambert. +“Please—I’d rather answer. I have told you already that I was not +there, Mr. Farr. If I had been I would have given my life—gladly, +believe me—to have prevented what happened.” + +Farr turned a hotly incredulous countenance to Judge Carver’s +impassive one. “Your Honour, I ask to have that stricken from the +record as deliberately unresponsive.” + +“It is not strictly responsive,” conceded His Honour dispassionately. +“However, the Court feels that you had already received a responsive +answer, so were apparently pressing for an elaboration. It may +remain.” + +“I defer to Your Honour’s opinion,” said Mr. Farr in a tone so far +from deferential that His Honour regarded him somewhat fixedly. “Mr. +Bellamy, what reason did Mrs. Ives give you for believing that Mr. +Ives was at home?” + +“She did not give me a reason; she gave me her word of honour.” + +“You did not press her for one?” + +“No; I considered her word better than any assurance that she——” + +“Your Honour, I have repeatedly requested the witness to confine +himself to yes and no. I ask with all deference to have the Court add +its instructions to that effect.” + +“Confine yourself to a direct answer whenever possible, Mr. Bellamy. +You are not permitted to enter into explanations.” + +“Very well, Your Honour.” + +“Nothing was said about an intercepted note, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“No.” + +“You were perfectly satisfied that she had some mysterious way of +ascertaining that he had not gone out at all that evening?” + +“Yes.” + +“But at some time during the evening that assurance on your part +evaporated?” + +“I don’t follow you.” + +“I’ll be clearer. By the time you reached Mrs. Ives’s home—I believe +that you’ve told us that that was at about ten-thirty—your confidence +in her infallibility had so diminished that you suggested that she +signal to you if Mr. Ives were actually there?” + +“I believe that that was her suggestion.” + +“Her suggestion? After she had given you her word of honour that he +was there?” + +“Yes.” + +“You wish that to be your final statement on that subject?” + +“Wait a moment.” He looked suddenly exhausted, as though he had been +running for a long time. “I told you that things were very confused +from the time that I found that Mimi hadn’t gone to the movies. I’m +trying to get it as straight as possible. It was some time after we +had left my house—after ten, I mean—and before we got to hers, that I +suggested there was just a chance that she was mistaken and that Pat +had gone to meet her after all. Sue said she couldn’t be mistaken, and +that, anyway, they’d never dare stay at the cottage so late—it +wouldn’t fit in with the movie story. I suggested then that possibly +she had been right in her idea that they had been planning to run away +together. Possibly that was what they had done to-night. She said, +‘Steve, you sound as though you wish they had.’ I said, ‘I wish to God +they had.’ Then she said, ‘I know that Pat hasn’t been out, but I’ll +let you know definitely when we go home.’ It was then that she +suggested the lights.” + +“It all comes back very clearly now, doesn’t it, Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Yes.” + +“Very convenient, remembering all those noble bits about how you +wished to God that they’d eloped, isn’t it?” + +“I don’t know that it’s particularly noble or convenient. It’s the +truth.” + +“Oh, undoubtedly. Mr. Bellamy, at what time——” + +“Your Honour, I protest these sneers and jeers that Mr. Farr is +indulging in constantly. I——” + +“I simply remarked that Mr. Bellamy was undoubtedly telling the +truth,” said Mr. Farr in dangerously meek tones. “Do you regard that +as necessarily sarcastic?” + +“I regard your tone as sheerly outrageous. I protest——” + +“It might be just as well to make no comments on the witness’s +replies, of either a flattering or an unflattering nature,” remarked +Judge Carver drily. “Is there a question before the witness?” + +“No, Your Honour. I was not permitted to complete my question.” + +“It may be completed.” There was a hint of acerbity in the fine voice. + +“Mr. Bellamy, at what time, after you left Mrs. Ives at her house, did +you return to your own?” + +“I don’t know.” The voice was weary to the point of indifference. + +“You don’t know?” + +“No; the whole thing’s like a nightmare. Time doesn’t mean much in a +nightmare.” + +“Well, did this nightmare condition permit you to ascertain whether it +was after twelve?” + +“I believe that it was later.” + +“After one?” + +“Later.” + +“How do you know that it was later?” + +“I don’t know—because the sky was getting lighter, I suppose.” + +“You mean that dawn was breaking?” + +“I suppose so.” + +“You are telling us that you drove about until dawn?” + +“I am telling you that I don’t remember what I did; it was all a +nightmare.” + +“Mr. Bellamy, why didn’t you go home to see whether your wife had +returned?” + +For the first time the eyes fixed on the prosecutor wavered. “What?” + +“You heard me, I believe.” + +“You want to know why I didn’t go back to my house?” + +“Exactly.” + +“I don’t know—because I was more or less out of my head, I suppose.” + +“You were anxious to know what had become of her, weren’t you?” + +“Anxious!” The stiff lips wrenched themselves into something +dreadfully like a smile. + +“Yet from eleven o’clock on you never went near your house to +ascertain whether she had come home or been brought home?” + +“No.” + +“You didn’t call up the police?” + +“I told you I’d already called them up.” + +“Nor the hospital?” + +“I’d called them too.” + +“Where were they to notify you in case they had news to report?” + +“At my house.” + +“How were you to receive this information—this vital information—if +you were roaming the country in an automobile?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Weren’t you interested to know whether she was dead or alive?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then why didn’t you go home?” + +“I have told you—I don’t know.” + +“That’s your best answer?” + +“Yes.” + +“Let’s see whether I can’t help you to a better one. Isn’t the reason +that you didn’t go home or call up the police or the hospital because +you knew perfectly well that any information that anyone in the world +could give you would be superfluous?” + +Stephen Bellamy focussed his weary eyes intently on the sardonic face +only a few inches from his. “I’m sorry—I don’t understand what you +mean.” + +“Don’t you? I’ll try to make it clearer. Wasn’t the reason that you +didn’t go home the perfectly simple one that you knew that your wife +was lying three miles away in a deserted cottage, soaked in blood and +dead as a doornail?” + +“Oh, for God’s sake!” At the low, despairing violence of that cry some +in the courtroom winced and turned away their faces from the ugly +triumph flushing the prosecutor’s cold face. “I don’t know, I tell +you, I don’t know. I was half crazy; I wasn’t thinking of reasons, I +wasn’t thinking of anything except that Mimi was gone.” + +“Is that your best answer.” + +“Yes.” + +“At what time the next morning did you hear of the murder of your +wife, Mr. Bellamy?” + +Slowly, carefully, fighting inch by inch back to the narrow plank of +self-control that lay between him and destruction, Stephen Bellamy +lifted his tired voice, his tired eyes. “I believe that it was about +eleven o’clock.” + +“Who notified you?” + +“A trooper, I think, from the police station.” + +“Please tell us what he said.” + +“He said that Mrs. Bellamy’s body had been found in an empty cottage +on the old Thorne estate, and that while it had already been +identified, headquarters thought I had better go over and confirm it. +I said that I would come at once.” + +“And did so?” + +“Yes.” + +“You saw the body?” + +“Yes.” + +“Identified it?” + +“Yes.” + +“It was clothed?” + +“Yes.” + +“In these garments, Mr. Bellamy?” + +And there, incredibly, it was again, that streaked and stiffened gown +with its once airy ruffles, dangling over the witness box in reach of +Stephen Bellamy’s fine long-fingered hand. After the first convulsive +movement he sat motionless, his eyes dilated strangely under his level +brows. “Yes.” + +“These shoes?” + +Lightly as butterflies they settled on the dark rim of the box, so +small, so gay, so preposterous, shining silver, shining buckles. The +man in the box bent those strange eyes on them. After a moment, his +hand moved forward, slowly, hesitantly; the fingers touched their +rusted silver, light as a caress, and curved about them, a shelter and +a defense. + +“These shoes,” said Stephen Bellamy. + +Somewhere in the back of the hall a woman sobbed loudly and +hysterically, but he did not lift his eyes. + +The prosecutor asked in a voice curiously gentle: “Mr. Bellamy, when +you went into the room, was the body to the right or the left of the +piano?” + +“To the left.” + +“You’re quite sure?” + +“Absolutely.” + +“Oh, God!” whispered the reporter frantically. “Oh, God, they’ve got +him!” + +“It’s strange that you should be so sure, Mr. Bellamy,” said the +prosecutor more gently still. “Because there was no piano in the room +to which you were taken to see the body.” + +“What?” The bent head jerked back as though a whip had flicked. + +“There was no piano in the dining room to which they had removed the +body, Mr. Bellamy. The piano was in the parlour across the hall, where +the body was first discovered.” + +“If that is so I must have seen it when I came in and confused it +somehow.” + +“You couldn’t very well have seen it when you came in, I’m afraid. The +door to the parlour was closed and locked so that the contents of the +room would not be disturbed.” + +“Well, then—then I must remember it from some previous occasion.” + +“A previous occasion? When you were never in the cottage before?” + +“No, no, I never said that. I never said anything like that.” The +desperate voice rose slightly in its intensity. “I couldn’t have; it +isn’t true. I’ve been there often—years ago, when I used to go over to +play with Doug Thorne when we were kids. There was a playhouse just a +few hundred feet from the cottage, and we used to run over to the +cottage and get bread and jam and cookies from the old German +gardener. I remember it absolutely; that’s probably what twisted me.” + +“But the old German gardener didn’t have any piano, Mr. Bellamy,” +explained the prosecutor patiently. “Don’t you remember that Orsini +particularly told us how the Italian gardener had just purchased it +for his daughter before they went off on their vacation? It couldn’t +have been the old German gardener.” + +The red-headed girl was weeping noiselessly into a highly inadequate +handkerchief. “Horrid, smirking, disgusting beast!” she intoned in a +small fierce whisper. “Horrid——” + +“No? Well, then,” said the dreadful, hunted voice, “probably Mimi told +me about it. She——” + +“Mrs. Bellamy?” There was the slightest inflection of reproach in the +soothing voice. “Mrs. Bellamy told you that her body was lying to the +left of the piano as you entered the room? It isn’t just the piano, +you see—I’m afraid that you’re getting a little confused. It’s the +position of the body in relation to the piano. You’re quite correct +about the position, of course—quite. But won’t you tell us how you +were so sure of it?” + +“Wait, please,” said Stephen Bellamy very clearly and distinctly. +“You’re quite right about the fact that I’m confused. I can see +perfectly that I’m making an absolute mess of this. It’s principally +because I haven’t had any sleep since God knows when, and when you +don’t sleep, you——” + +“Mr. Bellamy, I’m sorry that I can’t let you go into that. Will you +answer my question?” + +“I can’t answer your question. But I can tell you this, Mr. Farr—I can +tell you that as God is my witness, Susan Ives and I had nothing more +to do with this murder than you had. I——” + +“Your Honour! Your Honour!” + +“Be silent, sir!” Judge Carver’s voice was more imperious than his +gavel. “You are completely forgetting yourself. Let that entire remark +be stricken from the record. Mr. Lambert, be good enough to keep your +witness in hand. I regard this entire performance as highly improper.” + +Mr. Lambert, a pale ghost of his rubicund self, advanced haltingly +from where he had sat transfixed during the last interminable minutes. +“I ask the Court’s indulgence for the witness, Your Honour. He took +the stand to-day against the express advice of his physicians, who +informed him that he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. As it is +now almost four, I ask that the court adjourn until to-morrow, when +Mr. Bellamy will again take the stand if the prosecutor wishes to +continue the cross-examination.” + +Judge Carver leaned forward, frowning. + +“If it please Your Honour,” said the prosecutor, briskly magnanimous, +“that won’t be necessary. I’ve finished with Mr. Bellamy, and unless +my friend wishes to ask him anything on redirect——” + +“Nothing on redirect,” said Mr. Lambert hollowly, his eyes on the +exhausted despair of the face before him. “That will be all, Mr. +Bellamy.” + +Slowly, stiffly, as though his very limbs had been wrenched by +torture, Stephen Bellamy moved down the steps from the box, where +there still rested Mimi Bellamy’s lace dress and silver slippers. When +he stood a foot or so from his chair, he stopped for a moment, stared +about him wildly, turning on the girl seated a little space away a +look of dreadful inquiry. There she sat, slim and straight, with +colour warm on her cheeks and bright in her lips, smiling that gay, +friendly smile that was always waiting just behind the serene +indifference of her eyes. And painfully, carefully, Stephen Bellamy +twisted his stiffened lips to greet it, turned his face away and sat +down. Even those across the courtroom could watch the ripple in his +cheeks as his teeth clenched, unclenched, clenched. + +“If Your Honour has no objection,” the prosecutor was saying in that +smooth new voice, “the witness that I spoke of yesterday is now in the +court. He is still under his doctor’s orders, but he had an unusually +good night, and is quite able to take the stand; he is anxious to do +so, in fact, as he is supposed to get off for a rest as soon as +possible. His testimony won’t take more than a few moments.” + +“Very well, let him take the stand.” + +“Call Dr. Barretti.” + +“Dr. Gabriel Barretti.” + +Dr. Barretti, looking much more like a distinguished diplomat than +most distinguished diplomats ever look, mounted the stand with the +caution of one newly risen from a hospital cot and settled himself +comfortably in the uncomfortable chair. A small, close-clipped gray +moustache, a fine sleek head of graying hair, a not displeasing touch +of hospital pallor, brilliant eyes behind pince-nez on the most +inobtrusive of black cords, and the tiny flame of the Legion of Honour +ribbon lurking discreetly in his buttonhole—Dr. Barretti was far from +suggesting the family physician. He turned toward the prosecutor with +an air of gravely courteous interest. + +“Dr. Barretti, what is your profession?” + +“I believe that I might describe myself, without too much presumption, +as a finger-print expert.” + +There was no trace of accent in Dr. Barretti’s finely modulated voice, +and only the neatest touch of humourous deprecation. + +“The greatest authority in the world to-day, aren’t you, Doctor?” + +“It would ill become me to say so, sir, and I might find an +unflattering number to disagree with me.” + +“Still, it’s an undisputed fact. How long has finger-printing been +your occupation?” + +“It has been both my occupation and my hobby for about thirty-two +years.” + +“You started to make a study of it then?” + +“A little before that. I studied at the time, however, with Sir +Francis Galton in England and Bertillon in France. I also did +considerable experimental work in Germany.” + +“Sir Francis Galton and Bertillon were the pioneers in the use of +finger prints for identification, were they not?” + +“Hardly that. Finger prints for the purpose of identification were +used in the Far East before history was invented to record it.” + +Mr. Farr frowned impatiently. “They were its foremost modern exponents +as a means of criminal identification?” + +“Perfectly true. They were pioneers and very distinguished +authorities.” + +“Shortly before his death in 1911, did Sir Francis Galton write a +monograph on some recent developments in finger-print classification?” + +“He did.” + +“Did the dedication read ‘To Gabriel Barretti, My Pupil and My +Master’?” + +“Yes. Sir Francis was more than generous.” + +“Are you officially associated with any organization at present?” + +“Oh, yes. I am very closely associated with the work of the Central +Bureau of Identification in New York, and with the work of the Army +and Navy Bureau in Washington.” + +“You are the court of final appeal in both places, are you not?” + +“I believe so. I am also an official consultant of both Scotland Yard +and the Paris Sûreté.” + +“Exactly. Is there any opportunity of error in identification by means +of finger prints?” + +“Granted a moderately clear impression and an able and honest expert +to read it, there is not the remotest possibility of error.” + +“The prints would be identical?” + +“Oh, no; no two prints are ever identical. The pressure of the finger +and the temperature of the body cause infinite minute variations.” + +“But they do not interfere with identification?” + +“No more than the fact that you raise or lower your voice alters the +fact that it is your voice.” + +“Precisely. Now, Dr. Barretti, I ask you to identify these two +photographs and to tell us what they represent.” + +Dr. Barretti took the two huge cardboard squares with their sinister +black splotches and inspected them gravely. The jury, abruptly and +violently agog with interest, hunched rapidly forward to the edges of +their chairs. + +From over Mr. Farr’s shoulder came an old, shaken voice—the voice of +Dudley Lambert, empty of its erstwhile resonance as a pricked drum: +“One moment—one moment! Do I understand that you are offering these in +evidence?” + +“I don’t know whether you understand it or not,” remarked Mr. Farr +irritably. “It’s certainly what I intend to do as soon as I get them +marked for identification. Now, Dr. Barretti——” + +“Your Honour, I object to this—I object!” + +“On what grounds?” inquired Judge Carver somewhat peremptorily, his +own eyes fixed with undisguised interest on the large squares. + +“On the grounds that this entire performance is utterly irregular. I +was not told that the witness held back by the prosecutor was a +finger-print expert, nor that——” + +“You did not make any inquiries to that effect,” the judge reminded +him unsympathetically. + +“I consider the entire performance nothing more or less than a trap, +Your Honour. I know nothing about this man. I know nothing about +finger prints. I am not a police-court lawyer, but a——” + +“Do you desire further to qualify Dr. Barretti as an expert by +cross-examination?” inquired His Honour with more than his usual hint +of acerbity. + +“I do not, Your Honour; as I stated, I am totally unable to +cross-examine on the subject.” + +“I am sure that Dr. Barretti will hold himself at your disposal until +you have had the time to consult or produce finger-print experts of +your own,” said Judge Carver, bending inquiring eyes on that urbane +gentleman and the restive prosecutor. + +“Oh, by all means,” said Mr. Farr. “One day—two days—three days—we +willingly waive cross-examination until my distinguished adversary is +completely prepared. May I proceed, Your Honour?” + +“You may.” + +“They represent two greatly enlarged sets of finger prints, enlarged +some fifty to sixty times—both the photographs and the initialled +enlargements are in the lower left-hand corners—by my photographer and +myself.” + +“Both made at the same time?” + +“The photographs were made at the same time—yes.” + +“No, no—were the finger prints themselves?” + +“Oh, no, at quite different times. The set at the right is a +photograph of official prints—prints made especially for our file; the +one at the left, sometimes known as a casual print, was obtained from +a surface at another date entirely.” + +“A clear impression?” + +“A remarkably clear impression. I believe that I may say without +exaggeration—a beautiful impression.” + +“Each shows five fingers?” + +“The official one shows five fingers, the casual print shows four +fingers distinctly—the fifth, the little finger, is considerably +blurred, as apparently no pressure was exerted by it.” + +“Only one finger print is necessary in order to establish identity?” + +“A section of a finger print, if it is sufficiently large, will +establish identity.” + +“These prints are from the same hand?” + +“From the same hand.” + +“It should be obvious even to the layman in comparing them that the +same hand made them?” + +“I should think that it would be inescapable.” + +“No two people in the world have ever been discovered to have the same +arrangement of whorls or loops or arches that constitute a finger +print?” + +“No two in the world.” + +“How many finger prints have been taken?” + +“Oh, millions of them—the number increases so rapidly that it would be +folly to guess at it.” + +“I’m going to ask you to give these prints to the jury, Dr. Barretti, +so that they may be able to compare them at their leisure. Will you +pass them on, Mr. Foreman, after you have inspected them? . . . +Thanks.” + +The foreman of the jury fell upon them with a barely restrained +pounce, the very glasses on his nose quivering with excitement. Finger +prints! Things that you read about all your life, that you wondered +and speculated and marvelled over—and here they were, right in your +lucky hands. The rest of the jury crowded forward enviously. + +“Dr. Barretti, on what surface were these so-called casual prints +found?” + +Through the courtroom there ran a stir—a murmur—that strange soaring +hum with which humanity eases itself of the intolerable burden of +suspense. Even the rapt jury lifted its head to catch it. + +“From the surface of a brass lamp—the lamp found in the gardener’s +cottage on the Thorne estate known as Orchards.” + +“Will you tell us why it was possible to obtain so sharply defined a +print from this lamp?” + +“Certainly. The hand that clasped the lamp was apparently quite moist, +either from natural conditions of temperature or from some emotion. It +had clasped the base, which was about six inches in diameter before it +swelled into the portion that served as reservoir, quite firmly. The +surface of the lamp had been lacquered in order to obviate polishing, +making an excellent retaining surface. Furthermore, the impression was +developed within twenty-four hours of the time of the murder, and the +surface was at no time tampered with. The kerosene that had flowed +from it freely flowed away from the base, and, in any case, the prints +were on the upper portion of the base. All these circumstances united +in making it possible to obtain an unusually fine print.” + +“One that leaves not the remotest possibility of error in comparison +and identification?” + +“Not the remotest.” + +“Whose hand made those two sets of impressions, Dr. Barretti?” + +“The hand in both cases,” said Dr. Barretti, gravely and pleasantly, +“was that of Mrs. Patrick Ives.” + +After a long time Mr. Farr said softly, “That is all, Dr. Barretti. +Cross-examine.” + +And as though it had travelled a great distance and were very tired, +the old strange voice that Mr. Lambert had found in the courtroom that +afternoon said wearily, “No questions now. Later, perhaps—later—not +now.” + +The fifth day of the Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +The reporter looked from the clock to the red-headed girl and back +again, with an expression in which consternation and irritation were +neatly blended. The red-headed girl’s hat was well over one eye, her +nose was undeniably pink, she had a fluff of hair over her ear, a +fiery spot burning in either cheek and two or more in her eyes. The +clock said ten-thirty-five. + +“Well, you’re a fine one,” said the reporter in tones that belied the +statement. He removed an overcoat, a woolly scarf, a portable +typewriter, seven tabloid newspapers, and a gray felt hat from the +seat next to him and waited virtuously for appropriate expressions of +gratitude. None were forthcoming. The red-headed girl scrambled +unceremoniously over his feet, sank into the seat, and abandoned +herself to a series of minute but audible pants varied by an +occasional subdued sniff. + +“What in the world—” began the reporter. + +“Don’t speak to me!” said the red-headed girl in a small fierce voice, +and added even more fiercely: “What’s happened?” + +“That’s what I want to know!” remarked the reporter with some +emphasis. “What in the world was that perfectly ungodly racket going +on outside in the hall?” + +“Me,” said the red-headed girl. “Who’s been on the stand?” + +“You? For the Lord’s sake, what were you doing?” + +“Screaming,” said the red-headed girl. “Who’s been on the stand?” + +“Just a guy from a prison out West to prove that Orsini had served a +jail sentence for robbery. What were you screaming about?” + +“Because they wouldn’t let me in. . . . Who’s on now?” + +“That red-headed fellow, Leo Fox, from the gas station. He’s through +with his direct, and Farr has him now. . . . Why wouldn’t they let you +in?” + +“Because—— No, I can’t tell you all that now. Later—at lunch. Listen, +won’t you——” + + +“It was Saturday night, wasn’t it, Mr. Fox?” + +“Sure it was Saturday night.” + +Mr. Fox, who was lavishly decorated with freckles, whose coat was +about three inches too tight for him, and whose tie was about three +shades too green, shifted his chewing gum dexterously to the other +cheek and kept a wary eye on Mr. Farr. + +“There were a good many cars getting gas at your station on fine +Saturday nights in June, weren’t there?” + +“Sure there were.” + +“Yet this car and its occupants are indelibly stamped on your memory?” + +“If you mean do I remember the both of them, sure I do. They wasn’t +just getting gas; the dame—the lady—she wanted a drink of water, and +it was me who got it for her. That was what made me remember them, +see?” + +“And all you know is that it was some time after nine, because you +didn’t come on duty until nine?” + +“That’s right. I don’t never come on until then; and sometimes I’m a +couple of minutes late, at that.” + +“But it might have been two minutes past nine instead of twenty-five +minutes past, as Mrs. Ives claims?” + +“No, sir, it couldn’t have been nothing of the kind. People don’t get +eight gallons of gas, and pay for it, and get change, and ask for +glasses of water and get them, and drink them and get away all in two +minutes. It must have been more than ten minutes past, no matter if +they were the first ones to come along after I checked in.” + +Mr. Farr contemplated him with marked disfavour. “I didn’t ask you for +a speech, Mr. Fox. The only fact you are able to state to us +positively as to the time is that you came on duty at nine o’clock, +and that Mrs. Ives and Mr. Bellamy appeared after you had arrived.” + +“That’s right.” + +“Then that will be all. You may stand down.” + +“Call Mr. Patrick Ives,” said Mr. Lambert. + +“Mr. Patrick Ives!” + +From the corner by the window where he had sat, hour after hour and +day after day, with his mother’s small gloved hand resting lightly and +reassuringly on his knee, Patrick Ives rose and moved slowly forward +toward the witness box. + +How tall he was, thought the red-headed girl—how tall and young, for +all the haggard misery and bitterness of that white and reckless face. +He stood staring about him for a moment, his black head towering +inches above those about him; then, with one swift stride, he was in +his place. + +“Mr. Ives, will you be good enough to tell us as concisely as possible +just what happened on the night of June 19, 1926, from the time that +you arrived at your home to the time that you retired for the night?” + +“Oh,” said Patrick Ives indifferently, “I doubt whether I could do +anything along that line at all. I have a notoriously bad memory, and +I’d simply be faking a lot of stuff that wouldn’t do either of us any +good. Besides, most of that ground has been gone over by other +witnesses, hasn’t it?” + +The casual insolence of the conversational tone had had the effect of +literally hypnotizing Mr. Lambert, Mr. Farr, and the redoubtable +Carver himself into a state of stupefied inaction. As the voice +ceased, however, all three emerged from coma into violent energy. It +was difficult to tell which of the three was the more profoundly +moved, though Mr. Lambert’s protestations were the most piercing. +Fortified by his gavel, however, Judge Carver managed to batter the +rest into silence. + +“Let that answer be stricken from the record! It is totally improper, +Mr. Ives. This is not a debating society. You will kindly refrain from +expressing your opinions on any subject whatsoever, and will confine +yourself to the briefest replies possible.” + +“If Mr. Lambert will put a definite question to me I’ll see whether I +can give him a definite answer,” replied Mr. Ives, looking entirely +unchastened and remotely diverted. + +“Very well,” said Lambert, choking with ill-concealed wrath. “Will you +be so kind as to tell us whether anything out of the ordinary occurred +during that evening, Mr. Ives?” + +“No.” + +“Before dinner?” + +“No.” + +“After dinner?” + +“No.” + +Mr. Ives flung him the monosyllables like so many very bare bones +tossed at a large, hungry, snapping dog. + +“Miss Page testified that she met you at the nursery door with a ship +model in your hand at about eight o’clock. Is that correct?” + +“Yes.” + +“When did you see her again?” + +“About a quarter of an hour later.” + +“Was her testimony as to what followed correct?” + +“Oh, it was correct enough as far as it went.” + +“It went further than she told us?” + +“Considerably,” said Mr. Ives, a grimly reminiscent smile flitting +across his haggard young face. + +“In what direction?” + +“In the direction of violent hysterics and general lunacy,” said Mr. +Ives unfeelingly. + +“What was the cause of these—er—manifestations?” + +“Miss Page,” said Mr. Ives with great clarity and precision, “is a +high-strung, unbalanced, hysterical little idiot Mrs. Ives had——” + +“Does Your Honour consider that a responsive reply?” inquired Mr. Farr +with mild interest. + +“The Court has already warned the witness to keep strictly to the +question. It repeats that warning. As for the reply, it may be +stricken from the record.” + +“I consider it an absolutely responsive reply,” cried Mr. Lambert with +some heat. “Mr. Ives was explaining why Miss Page——” + +“You may take your exception and put the question again, Mr. Lambert. +The Court has ruled on the reply.” + +“What caused the hysteria you speak of?” inquired Mr. Lambert through +gritted teeth. + +“The fact that Mrs. Ives had told her that her services were no longer +required, and that she had better make her preparations to leave on +Monday. Miss Page wished me to intervene in her behalf, as I had +already done on two occasions.” + +“Did you acquiesce?” + +“On the contrary,” said Pat Ives—and at the tone of chilled steel in +his voice the red-headed girl felt a flash of something like pity for +her pet detestation, the flower-faced Miss Page—“I told her that in my +opinion Sunday was a better day than Monday, and that I’d send Roberts +to help with the packing.” + +“Why was Miss Page so anxious to stay, Mr. Ives?” + +“How should I know?” inquired Mr. Ives. “She probably realized that it +was a very excellent job that she was losing.” + +“That is the only explanation that occurs to you?” + +“It is the only explanation that it occurs to me to give you,” said +Mr. Ives gently, a small, dangerous smile playing about the corner of +his mouth. + +Mr. Lambert eyed him indecisively for a moment, and prudently decided +on another tack. “Did that conclude your conversation?” + +“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Ives, the smile deepening. “That started it.” + +“Will you give us the rest of it, please?” + +“I’m afraid I can’t. As I told you, I have a bad memory. If it doesn’t +betray me, however, I believe that it was largely an elaboration of +the two original themes.” + +“What themes?” + +“The themes of her departure and my intervention.” + +“Miss Page said nothing about a note?” + +“A note?” There was a look of genuine surprise in the lifted brows. + +“She did not mention having intercepted a note from Mrs. Stephen +Bellamy—having abstracted it from a book in the library?” + +“I see,” said Mr. Ives, the brows relaxing, the smile returning, a +little deeper and more dangerous. “No, I don’t believe that she +mentioned that. It would probably have made an impression on me if she +had.” + +“Had you any reason to believe that Miss Page was jealous of Mrs. +Bellamy, Mr. Ives?” + +“Jealous of Mrs. Bellamy? Why should Miss Page have been jealous of +Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“I thought that possibly you might be able to tell us.” + +“You were in error,” said Mr. Ives, leaning a little forward in his +chair. “I am totally unable to tell you.” + +He did not lift his voice, but Mr. Lambert moved back a step somewhat +precipitately. + +“Yes—exactly. Now, Mr. Ives, Melanie Cordier has testified that you +told her that you had not found the note she claims to have placed +there. Was that correct?” + +“That is what I told her, certainly.” + +“And it was an accurate statement on your part?” + +Mr. Farr rose leisurely to his feet. “Just one moment, please. I’m +becoming a little confused from time to time as to whether this is +direct or cross-examination. It looks as though Mr. Lambert were going +to leave me very little to do. Possibly I’m in error, but it certainly +sounds to me as though he were impeaching the veracity of his own +witness.” + +“The Court is inclined to agree with you. Do you object to the +question?” + +“I don’t particularly object to the question, but it strikes me as +totally out of place.” + +“Very well. You need not reply to that question, Mr. Ives.” + +“Thanks—with Your Honour’s permission, I prefer to. I’m sure that Mr. +Lambert will be glad to know that my reply to Melanie Cordier was +entirely accurate.” + +“How many of these notes had you received previously?” inquired Mr. +Lambert, and the expression that inflamed his countenance was not one +of gratitude. + +“Six or eight, possibly.” + +“Over what period?” + +“Over a period of about two months.” + +“Are you aware that Miss Cordier testified that she had placed +possibly twenty there over a much more extended period?” + +“Well, if she testified that,” said Patrick Ives indifferently, “she +lied.” + +“What was the tenor of these notes?” + +“They were largely suggesting appointments at the cottage.” + +“How often were these appointments carried through?” + +“Twice.” + +“Only twice?” + +At the flat incredulity of Lambert’s face something flared in Patrick +Ives’s heavy blue eyes. + +“Twice, I said—twice.” + +“Will you give us the dates?” + +“I’m afraid I can’t—once in the latter part of May, again about a week +before the murder. That’s about the best that I can do.” + +“Mr. Ives, there has been some talk here of this knife, State Exhibit +6. Miss Page has identified it as belonging to you. Is that correct?” + +“Quite.” + +“Will you tell us when you last saw it?” + +“The last time that I remember seeing it before it was produced here +in court was on the afternoon of my wife’s arrest—Monday the +twenty-first.” + +“Have you any idea where it was on the night of June nineteenth at +half-past nine?” + +“I have a very definite and distinct idea,” said Patrick Ives, and for +the first time since he had mounted the stand the haggard restlessness +of his face relaxed to something curiously approaching gaiety. “It was +in my right-hand trousers pocket.” + +Mr. Lambert’s exultant countenance was turned squarely to the jury. +“How did it come to be there?” + +“It was there because that’s where I stuck it when I took the boat +upstairs to Pete at eight o’clock that evening, and it stayed there +until I put it back on the desk Sunday morning after breakfast.” + +“No chance of an error on that?” + +“Not a chance.” + +“No possibility of its being in the possession of Mrs. Ives at any +time that evening?” + +“Not a possibility.” + +“Mr. Ives, where were you that evening at nine-thirty o’clock?” + +The careless gaiety departed abruptly from Patrick Ives’s face. For a +long moment he sat staring at Lambert, coolly and speculatively. His +eyes, still speculating, shifted briefly to the hundreds of eager +countenances straining toward his, and at the sight of their frantic +attention his mouth twisted somewhat mirthlessly. “Unkind, isn’t it,” +mocked his eyes, “to keep you waiting!” + +“I was at home,” said Patrick Ives. + +“What were you doing?” + +“Smoking a pipe and looking through a magazine, I think, though I +shouldn’t like to swear to the exact time. I wasn’t using a stop +watch.” + +“In what room?” + +“Well, I’m afraid that I can’t help you there much either. I moved +about from one room to another, you see. I did a little more work on +the boat, smoked, read—I didn’t follow any set programme. I wasn’t +aware at the time that it would have been judicious to do so.” + +“You are aware now, however, that Melanie Cordier said that you were +not in any of the lower rooms when she made her rounds at ten?” + +“Then I must have been in one of the upper rooms,” said Patrick Ives +gently. + +“You are also aware that Mrs. Daniel Ives has told us that you didn’t +bring her her fruit that night because you were not in the house?” + +“Well,” said Pat Ives gently still, “this is probably the first time +in her life that she was ever mistaken. I was in the house.” + +“What caused you to change your mind as to attending the poker party, +Mr. Ives?” + +“Circumstances arose that made it impossible.” The inscrutability of +Mr. Ives’s countenance suggested that he would be a formidable +addition to any poker party. + +“What circumstances?” + +“Circumstances,” said Mr. Ives, “that I shouldn’t dream of discussing +either here or elsewhere. I am able to assure you, however, that they +were not even remotely connected with the murder.” + +“What circumstances?” repeated Mr. Lambert, with passionate +insistence. + +“Now, what,” asked Mr. Farr with languid pathos, “I again inquire, is +my distinguished adversary leaving for a mere prosecutor to do?” + +“Mr. Lambert,” said Judge Carver austerely, “it strikes the Court that +you are most certainly pressing the witness unduly in view of the fact +that this is direct examination, and you are therefore bound to abide +by his answer. The Court——” + +“He has refused to give me an answer,” replied Mr. Lambert, with some +degree of justice and a larger degree of heat. “I may state to Your +Honour that I regard the witness’s manner as distinctly hostile and——” + +“The Court fails to see wherein he has proved hostile,” remarked Judge +Carver critically, “and it therefore requests you to bear in mind +henceforth that you are dealing with your own witness. You may proceed +with the examination.” + +Mr. Lambert turned his richly suffused countenance back to his own +witness, avoiding Sue Ives’s eye, which for the last half hour had not +once wavered from the look of passionate indignation that she had +directed toward him at the outset of his manœuvres. + +“Mr. Ives,” said Mr. Lambert, “you heard Miss Roberts testify that she +believed that it was your voice that she heard as she tried the door +to the day nursery, did you not?” + +“Yes, I heard her testify to that effect.” + +“Was she mistaken?” + +“No,” said Patrick Ives, spacing his words with cool deliberation, +“she was not mistaken.” + +“Was she mistaken in believing that the door was locked?” + +“No, she was not mistaken.” + +“Which of you locked the door, Mr. Ives?” + +“If you will tell me what that has to do with the murder of Mimi +Bellamy,” said Mr. Ives with even greater deliberation, “I will tell +you who locked the door.” + +“You refuse to answer my question?” + +“Most assuredly I refuse to answer your question.” + +“Your Honour——” choked the frenzied Lambert. + +“The Court also fails to see what the question has to do with the +case,” said Judge Carver, in a tone by no means propitiatory. “It is +excluded. Proceed.” + +“It is being made practically impossible for me to proceed in any +direction,” remarked Lambert, in a voice unsteady with indignation. +“Impossible! Mr. Ives, all that any occupant of that room had to do in +order to get out of the house was to unlock that door and go, wasn’t +it?” + +“Absolutely all,” acquiesced the hostile witness cordially. + +“No one would have been likely to see either one or the other or both +depart, would they?” + +“I think it highly unlikely.” + +“No one saw either you or Miss Page in the house between nine and ten, +did they?” + +“Not a soul—not a single solitary soul,” said Mr. Ives, and his voice +was almost blithe. + +“How long would it take to get from your house to the cottage at +Orchards?” + +“On foot?” + +“On foot, yes.” + +“Oh, ten-fifteen minutes, perhaps. There’s a short cut across the +fields behind the house that comes out close to there.” + +“The one that Miss Page used to take the children to the playhouse?” + +“That’s the one, yes.” + +“She knew of this path?” + +“Well, obviously.” The grim smile flashed for a moment to open +mockery. + +“And you knew of it?” + +“And I knew of it.” + +“How?” + +“My mother had told me that Miss Page was taking the children there, +and I’d requested her not to do so as I knew Sue’s feeling about the +place.” + +“Mr. Ives, were your relations with your wife happy?” + +For a moment Patrick Ives sat perfectly still, fighting back the surge +of crimson that flooded his pale mockery. When he spoke, his voice, +for all its clearness, sounded as though it had travelled back from a +great distance. + +“Yes,” he said, “they were happy.” + +“In so far as you know, she was unaware that you had ceased to care +for her?” + +“She could hardly have been aware of it,” said Patrick Ives. “From the +moment that I first saw her I have loved her passionately—and +devotedly—and entirely.” + +After a long, astounded silence, Lambert’s voice asked heavily, “You +expect us to believe, in the face of the evidence that has been +presented to us here, that you have been faithful to Mrs. Ives?” + +“It’s a matter of supreme indifference to me what you believe,” said +Patrick Ives. “I don’t regard fidelity to Sue as particularly +creditable. The fool of the world would have enough sense for that.” + +“You are saying that you never ceased to love her?” + +“I am saying that since I met her I’ve never given another woman two +thoughts except to wish to God that she was somewhere else.” + +“That was why you went to meet Madeleine Bellamy at the gardener’s +cottage?” + +“That,” said Mr. Ives imperturbably, “is precisely why I went to meet +Madeleine Bellamy at the gardener’s cottage.” + +Before the cool indifference of his eye the ugly sneer on Lambert’s +countenance wavered for a moment, deepened. “You deny that you wrote +these letters?” + +Pat Ives bent on the small packet flourished beneath his eye a +careless glance. “Not for a moment.” + +“Were they or were they not written after rendezvous had taken place +between you and Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“Two of them were written after what you are pleased to describe as +rendezvous had taken place—one before.” + +“And where, Mr. Ives, was your wife at the time of these meetings—on +June eighth, June ninth and May twenty-second?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“She was in New York, wasn’t she?” + +“I haven’t the faintest idea. I’d never met her, you see.” + +Lambert goggled at him above his sagging jaw. “You’d never met her?” + +The courtroom throng blinked, shivered, stared wildly into one +another’s eyes. No, no, that wasn’t what he had said—that couldn’t be +what he had said. Or perhaps he was going mad before their eyes, +sitting there with those reckless eyes dark in his white face. . . . + +“No; those letters were written in 1916. I didn’t meet Sue until the +spring of 1919.” + +“Ha!” exhaled Lambert in a great breath of contemptuous relief. +“Written in 1916, eh? And may I ask why Mrs. Bellamy was carrying them +around in her bag in 1926?” + +“You may ask,” Pat Ives assured him, “and what’s more, I’ll tell you. +She was selling them to me.” + +“Selling them to you? What for?” + +“For a hundred thousand dollars,” said Patrick Ives. + +Over the stupefied silence of the courtroom soared Lambert’s +incredulous voice: “You expect us to believe that?” + +“I wish to the Lord you’d stop asking me that,” said his witness with +undisguised irritation. “It’s not my business to decide what you’ll +believe or what you won’t believe. What I’m telling you is the truth.” + +“It is your contention that these letters of yours, which you now +claim were written in 1916, were being used for purposes of blackmail +by Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“You choose your own words,” said Pat Ives. “Personally, I’d chose +prettier ones. Mimi undoubtedly considered that I would be getting +value received in the letters. She was right. She also may have +considered that I owed her something. She was right again.” + +“You owed her something?” + +“I owed her a great deal for not having married me,” said Pat Ives. +“As she didn’t, I owe her more happiness than most men even dream of.” + +Lambert made a sound that strongly suggested a snort. “Very +pretty—very pretty indeed. What it comes down to, however, is that you +accuse this dead girl, who is not here to defend herself, of +deliberately stooping to blackmailing the man she loved for a colossal +sum of money—that’s it, isn’t it?” + +“Well, hardly. She didn’t love me, of course—she never loved anyone in +her life but Steve. She told me that she wanted the money because she +thought that he was sick; that he was working himself to death and +getting nothing out of it. She was going to persuade him that an aunt +in Cheyenne had left her the money, and that she wasn’t happy here, +and that they ought to start out again in a place that she’d heard of +in California. She had it all worked out very nicely.” + +“One moment, Mr. Ives.” Judge Carver lifted an arresting hand. “As it +is after twelve, the Court will at this time take its customary recess +for luncheon. We will reconvene at one-fifteen.” + + +The reporter viewed the recessional through the doors behind the +witness box with an expression of unfeigned diversion. “Watch Uncle +Dudley,” he adjured the red-headed girl. “He’s not going to have any +luncheon; he’s going to stay right here where nobody can get at him to +give him any unwelcome instructions before he gets through with Mr. +Patrick Ives. There, what did I tell you?” + +Mr. Lambert, who had followed somewhat perfunctorily in the wake of +his clients, now wheeled about briskly and returned to his well-laden +desk, where he proceeded to plunge into a large stack of papers before +him with virtuous abandon. He apparently found them of the most +absorbing interest, although from time to time he permitted himself a +slightly apprehensive glance at the closed door. + +Finally it opened, and one of the amiable and harassed-looking young +men who shared the desk with him entered purposefully. An animated +though inaudible colloquy ensued, punctuated by much emphatic head +wagging by Lambert. Finally the young man departed more precipitately +than he had come, Mr. Lambert returned to his studies, and the +reporter and the red-headed girl emerged from the fascinated hush in +which they had been contemplating this silent drama. + +“Ten to one she doesn’t get in a syllable to him before he gets +through with Ives,” said the reporter. + +“Who doesn’t?” The red-headed girl’s tone was a trifle abstracted. She +was wondering if her nose was still pink, and if the young man beside +her was one of the young men who consider face powder more immoral +than tooth powder. + +“Sue Ives, goose! What were you screaming about?” + +“I was screaming,” said the red-headed girl, memory lighting a +reminiscent glitter in her eye, “because they wouldn’t let me in, and +I thought that if I made enough noise they might.” + +“Why wouldn’t they let you in?” + +“Because a fat fiend made a snatch at my ticket and tore it in two and +I had only half a one to show them.” She relinquished the powder box +regretfully and exhibited a blue scrap about two inches square. “Next +time,” she remarked with grim pride, “they’ll know whom this ticket +belongs to. Two policemen snatched at me, and I told them if they laid +one finger on me, I’d have them up for assault and battery. So they +didn’t lay a finger on me.” + +“It will probably be a life work—and an uphill job, at that—to +eliminate a marked lack of emotional control that is your +distinguishing characteristic,” said the reporter meditatively. +“However, did you enjoy the picnic?” + +“I adored it!” said the emotionally uncontrolled young woman beside +him. + +“It was a fair picnic,” conceded the reporter. “And for a person whose +height should be measured in inches rather than feet, you’re a very +fair hiker. Too bad there’s only one Sunday to a trial. You have +rather a knack with bacon sandwiches too. How are you with scrambled +eggs?” + +“Marvellous!” said the red-headed girl frankly. + +“Though, if things keep up the way they’ve been going this morning, +we’re liable to have another trial started before this one is over. +The people versus Patrick Ives! I can see it coming.” + +“You don’t think he did it, do you?” inquired the red-headed girl +anxiously. + +“Oh, when it comes to murder trials, I don’t think. But I’ll tell you +this: If Steve Bellamy didn’t do it, he thinks that Pat Ives did. And +if Pat didn’t he thinks that Sue did. And I don’t envy any of them +their thoughts these days. . . . Ah, here we are again!” + + +“Mr. Ives, do I understand that you were perfectly willing to pay a +hundred thousand dollars for two or three letters that you protest are +perfectly innocent?” + +“I don’t protest anything of the kind. I think they’re damned +incriminating letters—just exactly the kind of stuff that a sickening, +infatuated, fatuous young fool would write. And you’re flattering me +when you say that I was perfectly willing. It took me about two months +to get even moderately resigned to the situation, and at that, I +didn’t regard it with marked favour.” + +“Still, you were willing to pay a hundred thousand dollars to keep the +letters out of your wife’s hands?” + +“Five hundred thousand dollars, if I could put my hands on it, to keep +pain and sorrow and ugliness out of her way.” + +“You were not convinced, then, that she would accept your story as to +when the letters were written?” + +“I didn’t want her to know that they had ever been written. I’d never +told her of the degree of—intimacy that had existed between Mimi and +myself.” + +“Exactly. Now Miss Cordier had told us that the notes from Mrs. +Bellamy had been increasing in frequency at the time of the murder. Is +that true?” + +“Yes; I’d have about three in ten days.” + +“Her demands were becoming more insistent?” + +“Considerably.” Again that small grim smile, curiously unsuggestive of +mirth. + +“So that it had become essential for you to do something at once if +you were to prevent these letters from reaching your wife?” + +“It was necessary for me to produce the money at once, if that is what +you mean.” + +“Don’t trouble to analyze my meanings, if you please. Just answer my +question.” + +Patrick Ives’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Your question was ambiguous,” +he commented without emphasis. + +“I asked you if it was not imperative for you to act promptly in order +to prevent these letters from reaching your wife?” + +“It’s still ambiguous. As I said before, however, it was necessary to +pay for the letters pretty promptly, and I brought out the money on +the night of the nineteenth with that end in view.” + +“Oh!” said Lambert, in a heavily disconcerted voice. “You brought it +out, did you? In what form?” + +“I got it out of my safety box at noon—eighty-five thousand in Liberty +Bonds and fifteen in municipal bonds.” + +“Did anyone know that you were doing this?” + +“Naturally not.” + +“Where did you place this sum on your return, Mr. Ives?” + +“Well, I put it first in the back of the desk drawer in my study just +before dinner. I intended to put it upstairs in a wall safe behind a +panel in my dressing room, but while I was looking through it in the +study to make sure that it was all there, Sue called to me from the +hall that our guests were going, and I went out on the porch to say +good-bye to them. We didn’t go upstairs before dinner, so that I +didn’t get a chance to transfer them until later in the evening.” + +“No one knew they were in the house?” + +“Not so far as I know?” + +“What did you do with them subsequently?” + +“I returned them to my safety-deposit box on Monday at noon.” + +“Anyone know of that transaction?” + +“Not a soul.” + +“So you are the only person able to attest that you ever had any +intention of paying that money to Mrs. Bellamy?” + +“Well, whom do you want better?” inquired Pat Ives agreeably. + +Mr. Lambert bestowed on him an enigmatic smile that was far from +agreeable. “Did this sum represent a substantial portion of your +capital?” + +“It certainly would be no exaggeration to say that it made a large +dent in it.” + +“You say that it had taken you a long time to decide to pay it?” + +“A moderately long time—two months.” + +“Why didn’t you take it to Mrs. Bellamy that evening, Mr. Ives?” + +“I had no appointment with her. She was to let me know if she was able +to get away, and at what time.” + +“It didn’t occur to you to look in the book to see whether there was a +note?” + +“It most assuredly did occur to me. I went in for that specific +purpose at the time that Sue called me from the hall.” + +“So that you didn’t look?” + +“Oh, yes, I did look when I came back five minutes later. There was no +note.” + +“Aha!” said Mr. Lambert, and the red-headed girl, watching with +horrified eyes the reckless progress of young Mr. Ives across the +spread nets, made a mechanical note that never except in a book had +she heard a human being say “Aha” before. “So you looked in the book, +did you? And there was no note, was there?” + +“Right both times,” said Mr. Ives. + +“Now that’s very interesting,” beamed Mr. Lambert—“very interesting, +indeed. But if there had been a note in that book, you’d have found +it, wouldn’t you?” + +“Well, not being a blithering idiot, that’s a fairly safe +proposition.” + +“And if you had found it, you would have gone to the rendezvous, +wouldn’t you?” + +“I’d certainly have made every effort to.” + +“Cancelling your poker engagement?” + +“Presumably.” + +“Taking the short cut across the fields?” + +“I don’t know how I’d have gone. It’s slightly academic, isn’t it?” + +“And in that gardener’s cottage you would have found waiting for you +the unfortunate girl with those letters that it was so vitally +necessary for you to obtain?” + +“Why don’t you ask him whether he would still have had the knife in +his pocket?” inquired Mr. Farr gently. “And why don’t you ask him what +he would have done with it? You don’t want to leave anything like that +out.” + +Lambert, thus rudely checked in his exultant career, turned bulging +eyes and a howl of outraged protest in the direction of Judge Carver’s +unresponsive countenance. + +“Your Honour, in a somewhat protracted career at the bar, I have yet +to encounter as flagrant a breach——” + +Judge Carver cut sharply across these strident objurgations: “And in a +somewhat protracted career at the bar, Mr. Lambert, this Court has yet +to encounter as extraordinary a conduct of an examination as you have +permitted yourself, and as the Court, in the absence of protests from +either the witness or the prosecution, has permitted you. Mr. Farr’s +objection was not put in a proper form, but is otherwise quite +legitimate. The questions that you are putting to the witness involve +a purely supposititious case, and as such, the witness is entirely at +liberty to refuse to answer them. You may proceed.” + +“I’ll answer it,” said Pat Ives. “If I’d found the note, I’d have gone +to the cottage, given Mimi the money, got the letters, and none of us +would have spent these last weeks thinking what a nice pleasant place +hell would be for a change. I wish to God I’d found it. Is that what +you wanted to know?” + +It was very far indeed from what Mr. Lambert wanted to know. However, +he turned a wary eye on the jury, who were contemplating soberly and +not too sympathetically the bitter, insolent face of the young +gentleman in the witness box. Flippancy was obviously an evil stench +in their nostrils. Mr. Lambert rattled the letters still clenched in +his hand reminiscently. + +“There are two or three things in these letters that I’d like to have +you reconcile with the statement that they were written in 1916. +First, what does it mean, Mr. Ives, when you say: ‘I keep telling +myself that we’re mad—that there’s black trouble ahead of us—that I +haven’t any right in the world to let you do this’—do what, Mr. Ives?” + +“Carry on the highly indiscreet affair that we were indulging in,” +said Pat Ives, his white face a shade whiter. “We’d both completely +lost our heads. She wasn’t willing to marry me because she was afraid +that I hadn’t it in me to make good. There was a lot of ugly gossip +going on, and it had upset her.” + +“Quite so,” smiled Mr. Lambert dreadfully; “oh, quite so. Now in the +one that begins: ‘Mimi darling, darling, darling, it’s after four +o’clock and——’” + +“Are you going through those letters again?” inquired Patrick Ives, +his hands clenched on the edge of the box. + +“Just one or two little things that I’d like cleared up, and I’m sure +that these gentlemen would too. It goes on: ‘Dawn—I always thought +that was the worst word in the English language and here I am on my +knees waiting for it, and ranting like——’” + +“You needn’t go on,” said Patrick Ives, “if what you’re really after +is when they were written. The sun that rose at 4:30 that morning in +June in 1916 would have kept me waiting exactly one hour and six +minutes longer in 1926. You and Mimi and I had forgotten just one +thing, Mr. Lambert—we’d forgotten that in 1916 there was no such thing +as daylight saving.” + +And through the staggered silence that invaded some three hundred-odd +people who had forgotten precisely the same thing, there rose a little +laugh—a gay, excited, triumphant little laugh, as though somewhere a +small girl had suddenly received a beautiful and unexpected present. +It came from just behind Mr. Lambert’s sagging shoulders—it came +from—— The startled eyes of those in the courtroom jerked in that +direction, staring unbelievingly at the quiet figure, so quiet, so +cool, so gravely aloof. But the red-headed girl felt idiotic tears +sting swiftly beneath her lids. Under the lowered barrier of Sue +Ives’s lashes there still danced the echo of that joyous truant, +shameless and unafraid. It was she who had laughed, after all. + +Mr. Lambert was not laughing. “You are a little late in recalling +this,” he remarked heavily. + +“Oh, a good deal late,” agreed Patrick Ives. “But, you see, I hadn’t +been going in for watching the sun rise for some time previous to the +murder. Since then I have. And when I heard that letter read in court +the other day, something clicked in my head. Not five o’clock, and the +sun was up! Something wrong there. I went back to New York and looked +it up in the public library. On Friday, June 9, 1916, the sun rose at +four twenty-two A. M. On Wednesday, June 9, 1926, the sun rose at five +twenty-eight. So that’s that.” + +“Have you a certified statement to that effect?” inquired Lambert, +forlornly pompous. + +“No,” said Mr. Ives. “But I can lend you a World Almanac.” + +“You seem to find a trial for murder a very amusing affair,” remarked +Lambert heavily, his eyes once more on the jury. + +“You’re wrong,” said Patrick Ives briefly. “I don’t.” + +“I do not believe that your attitude makes further examination +desirable,” commented Lambert judicially. “Cross-examine.” + +Farr rose casually from his chair, his hands in his pockets, his head +cocked a trifle to one side. “Mr. Ives,” he said leisurely, “I’m going +to ask you the one question that Mr. Lambert didn’t. Did you murder +Madeleine Bellamy?” + +After a pause that seemed interminable, Pat Ives lifted his eyes from +their scrutiny of his hands, locked at the edge of the witness box. +“No,” he said tonelessly. + +“No further questions,” remarked Mr. Farr, still more leisurely +resuming his seat. + +Lambert glared—swallowed—glared again, and turned on his heel. “Mrs. +Ives, will you be good enough to take the stand?” + +She was on her feet before the words were off his lips, brushing by +him with her light, swift step and a look of contemptuous anger that +was bright and terrible as a sword. + +“Looks as though his precious Sue was going to give Uncle Dudley a bad +half hour,” murmured the reporter exultantly. + +“Why?” whispered the red-headed girl. “Why did she look like that?” + +“Because I rather fancy that Lambert has just a scrap exceeded his +authority in his efforts to speed Pat Ives to the gallows. The old +walrus made out a fairly damaging case against him, even if he did +snort himself purple. If——” + +“Mrs. Ives, I’m going to ask you to tell us in your own words just +what occurred on the evening of the nineteenth of June, from the time +that Mr. Farwell spoke to you at the club. I won’t interrupt unless I +feel that something is not quite clear. At what time did the +conversation with Mr. Farwell take place?” + +She looked so small, sitting there—so small and young and fearless, +with her dark, bright eyes and her lifted chin and the pale gold wings +of her hair folded under the curve of the little russet hat. She had +no colour at all—not in her cheeks, not in her lips. + +“It was a little after five,” said Sue Ives, and the red-headed girl +gave a sigh of sheer delight. Once or twice in a lifetime a voice like +that falls on our lucky ears—a voice clear and fresh as running water, +alive and beautiful and effortless. The girl in the box did not have +to lift it a half tone to have it penetrate to the farthest corner of +the gallery. “We got in from the links just at five, and Elliot came +up and asked me if he could bring me something to drink. I said yes, +and when he came back he suggested that we go over and sit on the +steps, as he had a splitting headache, and everyone was making a good +deal of a racket. We hadn’t been there more than five minutes before +he told me.” + +“Before he told you what?” prompted Lambert helpfully. + +“Before he told me that Pat was having an affair with Mimi Bellamy.” +She did not vouchsafe him even a glance, but kept the clear, stern +little face turned squarely to the twelve attentive ones lifted to +hers. “At first I thought that it was simply preposterous nonsense—I +told him so. Everyone knew that Elliot was absolutely out of his head +over Mimi, and I thought that he really was going a little mad. I +could see that he’d been drinking, of course, and I wasn’t even as +angry as I ought to have been, because he was so unhappy—dreadfully +unhappy. And then he said that he’d spied on them—that he’d seen them +go to the cottage together. Well, that—that was different. That didn’t +sound like the kind of thing that you’d invent or imagine, no matter +how unbalanced you were.” + +“You believed it?” + +“No, not at first—not quite. But it bothered me dreadfully all the way +home from the club—all the time that we were standing around in our +living room waiting for the cocktails. I couldn’t get it out of my +head. And then Pat came in.” + +She paused, frowning a little at the memory of that sick perplexity. + +“You say that Mr. Ives came in?” + +“Yes. He was looking dreadfully tired and—excited. No, that’s not the +word. Keyed up—different. Or perhaps it was just that I expected him +to look different. I don’t know. Anyway, Elliot started to go then, +and I went into the hall after him, because he’d been drinking a good +deal more, and I was afraid that he’d talk as indiscreetly to someone +else as he had to me. I couldn’t think very clearly yet, but I was +quite sure that that ought to be stopped. So I asked him to be +careful, and he said that he would.” + +“Did you notice Melanie Cordier in the library?” + +“No. I was watching Elliot. He looked so wretchedly unhappy that I was +really worried about him. Well, anyway, he went off without even +saying good-bye, and I went back toward the living room. Just as I +came up to it I heard George Dallas say, ‘We can count on you for the +poker party to-night, can’t we?’ And Pat said, ‘I’ll surely try to +make it, but don’t count on me.’ Something inside my head went click, +and all the pieces in the puzzle fell into place. I walked straight +into the room and up to where he was standing. He’d gone over to the +table and was pouring out another of those new cocktails. Everyone was +making a dreadful racket, laughing and talking. I said, ‘Nell Conroy +wanted us to go to the movies to-night. Don’t you think that it would +be rather fun?’ And he said, ‘Sorry, but I told George that I’d run +over for a poker game. Tell Nell that you’ll go, and then I won’t +worry about you being lonely.’ I said, ‘That’s a good idea.’ And Pat +said, ‘Be back in a minute. I have some papers I want to get rid of.’ + +“He went across the hall; I could hear his steps. I felt just exactly +as though I’d taken poison and I stood there waiting for it to begin +to work. Someone came up to me to say good-bye—I think it was the +Conroys, and then everyone else began to go, too, the way they always +do. I started to go out to the porch with them, and while I was +passing through the hall I saw Pat standing by the desk. He was +looking at some papers in his hand. I went on toward the porch, +calling back over my shoulder that everyone was leaving. In a minute, +he came out too. I looked to see whether he still had the papers in +his hand, but he hadn’t. While we were both standing there watching +them drive off, Melanie came out, announced dinner, and we went in. +Pat stopped behind in the study for a moment, but he didn’t go near +the desk drawer—I could see it from my place at the table.” + +“Could you have seen him take a book from the corner shelf?” + +“No—the screen between the rooms cut off that corner.” + +“Nothing unusual occurred at dinner?” + +“No. That made it worse. Nothing unusual occurred at all. Pat talked +and laughed a good deal, but that’s what he always did.” + +“And after dinner?” + +“After dinner Mother Ives went out into the garden, and Pat asked me +to come into the study to look at the clipper ship that he’d been +making for Pete. All the time that I was supposed to be looking at it, +I couldn’t take my eyes off the desk, wondering what he’d done with +those papers—wondering what they were. There had been quite a little +pile of them. After a while I couldn’t stand it any longer, and I +said, ‘If you want to say good-night to Pete and Polly, you’ll have to +hurry. They ought to be asleep by now.’ He said, ‘Lord, that’s true!’ +He snatched up the boat and started for the door, and I called after +him, ‘I’m not coming. I kissed them good-night before dinner.’ I +waited until I heard his footsteps on the stairs——” + +She paused for a moment, pushing the bright hair back from her brow as +though she found it suddenly heavy. + +“And then, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Then,” said Sue Ives steadily, “I did something disgusting. I +searched the desk. I pushed the door to, so that none of the servants +could see me if they passed through the hall, and I hurried like mad. +I don’t know exactly what I expected to find, but I thought that maybe +those papers were letters from Mimi, and then I knew that Pat kept his +check book there, too, and I thought that there might be entries of +some kind that would tell me something; I could bear anything but not +knowing. It was like a—like a frenzy. Oh, it was worse! The top drawer +on the left-hand side of the desk was locked.” + +She paused again for a moment, staring down as curiously and intently +at the upturned faces below her as they stared up at her; then, with a +quick, impatient shake of her head she went on: “But that didn’t make +any difference, because I knew where the key was. I used the top +right-hand drawer myself for my household accounts and bills and loose +silver, and I kept it locked because, whenever Pat brought home gold +pieces from his directors’ meetings, we used to put them there. We +saved them up until we had enough to get a present for the house, +something beautiful and—— No, that doesn’t make any difference. We +called the drawer the bank, and Pat showed me where he kept the key so +that I could always get into it.” + +“Where did he keep this key?” + +“In a tobacco jar on top of the bookcase. I found it and opened the +drawer, and there were the papers, quite a thick packet of them, +pushed way back in the drawer. They were bonds—eighty-five thousand +Liberty, fifteen thousand municipal. I counted them twice to make +sure.” For the first time since she had mounted the stand she turned +her dark and shining eyes on the perturbed Lambert. “You were very +anxious to know whether anyone but Pat had seen that money, weren’t +you? Well, I saw it. And I was just as sure that Pat had taken it out +of our safe-deposit box in order to run away with Mimi Bellamy as I +was that I was standing there counting it—just as sure as that. I put +it back and locked the drawer and dropped the key back into the +tobacco jar and went to the flower room to telephone to Stephen +Bellamy. The clock in the hall said five minutes past eight. I hadn’t +been in the study for more than ten minutes.” Once more she lifted her +hands to that bright hair. “Do you want me to repeat the telephone +conversation?” + +“Was it substantially the same as Miss Page gave it?” + +“Exactly the same, word for word.” + +“Then I hardly think that that will be necessary. Just tell us what +you did after you finished telephoning.” + +“I went to the foot of the nursery stairs and called up to ask Pat if +he had absolutely decided to go to the poker game. He called back yes, +and asked if he couldn’t drop me at the Conroys’. I told him that I’d +rather walk. I got that flannel coat out of the closet and started off +for the gate at the back of the house that led to the back road. I was +almost running.” + +“Had you planned any course of action?” + +“No, I hadn’t any definite plan, but I knew that I had to get to +Stephen and make him stop Mimi, and that every minute was precious. +Just as I got to the gate, I noticed that a wind had sprung up—quite a +cold wind—and I remembered that Mother Ives had told me at dinner that +Polly’s ear had been hurting her, and that she slept right by the +window where that wind would blow on her, so I turned back to the +house to tell Miss Page to be sure to put a screen around the head of +her crib. I saw Mother Ives at the far end of the rose garden, but I +thought that it would take as long to call her and explain as it would +to do it myself. So I ran on to the house, and I was halfway up the +nursery stairs before I heard Pat’s voice. I thought he was talking to +the babies, and I hurried up the last few steps. I was almost at the +nursery door when I heard another voice—Kathleen Page’s. It wasn’t +coming from the nursery; it was coming from her room. She was saying, +‘Don’t let her send me away from you—don’t, don’t! All I want——’” + +“Your Honour——” + +Farr’s warning voice was hardly swifter than Judge Carver’s: “I am +afraid that you cannot tell us what you heard, Mrs. Ives.” + +“I cannot tell you what I heard Kathleen Page saying?” + +The wonder in the clear, incredulous voice penetrated the farthest +corner of the courtroom. + +“No. Simply confine yourself to what you did.” + +“Did? I did nothing whatever. I could no more have moved a step nearer +to the door than if I had been nailed to the floor. She was crying +dreadfully, in horrid little pants and gasps. It was absolutely +sickening. Pat said, ‘Keep quiet, you little lunatic. Do you want——’” + +“Mrs. Ives, the Court has already warned you that you are not able to +tell us what was said.” + +“Why am I not able to tell you what was said? I told you what we said +downstairs.” + +Judge Carver leaned toward her, his black sleeves flowing majestically +over the edge of the rail. “No objection was raised as to that +conversation. Mr. Farr objects to this and the Court sustains him. For +your own sake, the Court requests you to conform promptly to its +rulings.” + +For a moment the two pairs of dark eyes met in an exchange of glances +more eloquent than words; a look of grave warning and one of fearless +rebellion. + +“I do not understand your rules. What am I permitted to tell of the +things that I am asked to explain?” + +“Simply tell us what you did after you heard the voices in the room.” + +“Very well; I will try again. I stood there for a moment, staring at +the door to the day nursery. The key was on the outside so that the +babies couldn’t lock themselves in. I don’t remember moving, but I +must have moved, because suddenly I had the door knob in my hand. I +jerked it toward me and slammed the door so hard that it nearly threw +me off my feet. The key——” + +“Yes, yes,” cut in Lambert, his face suffused with a sudden and +terrifying premonition. “We needn’t go too much into all these +details, you know. We want to stick to our story as closely as +possible. You didn’t say anything, did you?” + +“No.” + +“Just went on downstairs to meet Stephen Bellamy, didn’t you?” + +“No.” + +“You did not?” Mr. Lambert’s blank query was enough to wring +commiseration from a stone. Sue Ives did not look particularly +merciful, however. She had turned in her chair so that she faced her +devoted adversary squarely. She leaned forward a little now, her +lovely mouth schooled to disdain, her eyes under their level brows +bright with anger. + +“No, not then. I was telling you what I did. I turned the key in the +lock and put it in my pocket. You didn’t want me to say that, did you, +Uncle Dudley? You wanted everyone to believe that it was Pat who +murdered Mimi, didn’t you?” + +“Mrs. Ives—Mrs. Ives——” + +“Silence! Silence!” + +“Mrs. Ives!” + +Over the outraged clamour of the law, her voice rose, clear and +triumphant: “He didn’t murder her, because he was locked in those +rooms until quarter to eleven that night, and I had the key in my +pocket. Now, you can all strike that out of the record!” + +“Mrs. Ives!” Over the last crash of the gavel, Judge Carver’s voice +was shaken with something deeper than anger. “Mrs. Ives, if you are +not immediately silent, the Court will be obliged to have you +removed.” + +“Removed?” She was on her feet in an instant, poised and light. “You +wish me to go?” + +“I wish you to get yourself in hand immediately. You are doing +yourself untold injury by pursuing this line of conduct. The rules +that you are refusing to obey were made largely for your own +protection.” + +“I don’t want to be protected. I want to tell the truth. Apparently no +one wants to hear it.” + +“On the contrary, you are permitted to take the stand for that express +purpose.” + +“For that purpose? To tell the truth?” The scorn in her voice was +almost gay. + +“Precisely. The limits that are imposed are for your benefit, and you +are injuring your co-defendant as well as yourself by refusing to +abide by them.” + +“Stephen?” She paused at that, considering gravely. “I don’t want to +do that, of course. Very well, I will try to go on.” She turned back +to her chair, and a long sigh of incredulous relief trembled through +the courtroom. + +“I have forgotten where I stopped.” + +“You were about to tell us what you did after you came down the +nursery stairs?” Lambert’s shaken voice was hardly audible. + +“Yes. Well, then—then we did exactly what Stephen said we did. We +drove through the back road to the River Road, where we turned to the +left and went into Lakedale in order to get more gasoline. I +distinctly remember the time, because we had been discussing whether +the movies would be out by the time that we got back. It was +twenty-five minutes past nine. After that we retraced our steps—down +the River Road to the back road, down to the place in the back road +where I had met Stephen, past our house into the main street of the +village, past the movie house, which was dark, and up the main street, +which runs into the Perrytown Highway—up the Perrytown Highway to the +Bellamy house. + +“I was absolutely sure that I saw a light over the garage, but it +certainly wasn’t there a minute or so afterwards, and I decided that I +might as well go in anyway. I was beyond bothering much about any +minor conventions, and I thought that if Mimi were actually there, it +would be a heavenly relief to put all the cards on the table and have +it out with her once and forever. Mimi wasn’t there, of course; it was +then that Steve called up the Conroys. When he found that she wasn’t +there, I was really terrified at his condition. He was as quiet as +usual, but he didn’t seem to understand anything at all that was said +to him. He didn’t even bother to listen. He had some kind of a chill, +and he just sat there shivering, while I reassured and argued and +explained. + +“I could have saved my breath. He didn’t even hear me. He did finally +rouse himself to telephone the police and the hospital; the rest of +the time he just sat there staring and shivering. He wanted me to call +up Pat and the Dallases, and of course I knew that that wouldn’t do +any good—Pat was locked up two stories away from a telephone. Finally +I asked, ‘Did you see what direction she was going in when she left?’ +He shook his head. I said, ‘But she told you that she was going toward +the Conroys’?’ He nodded. I said, ‘Well, maybe she turned her ankle +and fainted somewhere along the side of the road—she always wears such +dreadfully high heels. We might take the car and turn the headlights +along the edge of the road and see if we can get any trace of her. +Come on!’ + +“I knew that that was perfect nonsense, but I was desperate, and I +thought that there was just a chance that it might rouse him. It did. +It was exactly as though you’d put a galvanic shock through him. He +jerked out of his chair. He was out in the hall without even waiting +to look back at me, and I had to run to get to the car before he +started it. + +“We got off with such a jerk that it nearly threw me out of the car, +and I was really afraid that he was going to dash us against one of +the gateposts. I said, ‘If we’re going to find Mimi, Steve, we must go +slowly, mustn’t we? We must look carefully.’ He said, ‘That’s right!’ +And after that we literally crept, all the way to the Conroys’.” + +“How far was that?” + +“Oh, not far—not half a mile—just a little way. It wasn’t until after +we got past their entrance that we decided that——” She paused for a +moment, her eyes dilated strangely in her small pale face; then she +wrung her hands together more closely as though in that hard contact +she found comfort, and continued steadily in her low voice. “We +decided that we might as well go on.” + +Lambert, paler than she, said just as steadily, “Might as well go on +where, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Go on to the gardener’s cottage at Orchards,” said Susan Ives. + +In the gray light of the courtroom, the faces of the occupants looked +gray, too—sharpened, fearful, full of an ominous unease. More than one +of them glanced swiftly over a hunched shoulder at the blue-coated +guardians of the door, and then back again, with somewhat pinched and +rueful countenance, at the slight occupant of the witness box. The +figure sat so quietly there in the gathering shadows; to many who +watched it seemed that there slanted across her lifted face another +shadow still—the shadow of the block, of the gallows, of the +chair. . . . + +“Is she confessing?” asked the red-headed girl in a small colourless +voice. + +“Wait!” said the reporter. “God knows what she’s doing.” + +Judge Carver leaned suddenly toward Lambert. + +“Mr. Lambert, it is already considerably past four. Is this testimony +likely to continue for some time?” + +“For some time, Your Honour.” + +“In that case,” said Judge Carver gravely, “the Court considers it +advisable to adjourn until ten to-morrow. Court is dismissed.” + +The small figure moved lightly down from the witness stand into the +deeper shadows—deeper still—she was gone. The sixth day of the Bellamy +trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +The reporter cast an anxious eye at the red-headed girl. “You’ve been +crying,” he said accusingly. + +The red-headed girl looked unrepentant. + +“Of all the little idiots! What’s Sue Ives to you?” + +“Never mind,” said the red-headed girl with dignity. “I can cry if I +want to. I can cry all night if I want to. Keep quiet. Here she is!” + + +“Mrs. Ives, what made you decide to go on to the cottage?” Lambert’s +voice was very gentle. + +“I think that it was Stephen’s idea, but I’m not absolutely sure. I +was at my wit’s end by this time, you see. But I believe that it was +Steve who suggested that maybe she had been taken ill or perhaps even +fallen asleep at the cottage. I remember agreeing that it was stupid +of us not to have thought of that before. At any rate, we both agreed +to go on to the cottage.” + +She stopped again and sat for a moment locking and unlocking her +fingers, her eyes fixed on something far beyond the courtroom door. + +“What time did you arrive at the cottage?” + +“At about quarter past ten, I believe—twenty minutes past perhaps. It +isn’t more than a five-minute drive. We drove the car up through the +lodge gates and then turned off the little dirt road to the cottage. +We drove it right up to the front steps, and then I said, ‘It’s no +good; there’s no light in the place. She isn’t here.’ Steve said, +‘Maybe she left a note saying where she was going,’ and I said, +‘That’s perfectly possible. Let’s go in and see.’ He helped me out, +and just as we got to the door, I said, ‘Well, we’ll never know. The +place will be locked, of course.’ Steve had his hand on the door knob, +and he pushed it a little. He said, ‘No, it’s open. That’s queer.’ I +said, ‘Probably she thought that he might come later.’ And he opened +the door and we went in.” + +She sat staring with that curious, intent rigidity at that far-off +spot beyond the other closed door, and the courtroom followed her +glance with uneasy eyes. + +“And then?” + +“Yes. And then when we got in there wasn’t any light, of course. Steve +asked, ‘Do you know where the switch is?’ And I told him, ‘There isn’t +any switch. Douglas has always been talking about putting electricity +in these cottages, but he never has.’ Steve said, ‘Well, there must be +a light somewhere,’ and I said, ‘Oh, of course there is. There always +used to be an old brass lamp here in the corner by the front +door—let’s see.’ It was right there on the same table. There were +matches there, too, and I struck one of them and lit it. Steve had +stepped by me into the room; he was standing by the door, and he stood +aside to let me pass. There was a little breeze from the open door, +and I had put up one hand to shield the light and keep it from +flickering. I was looking at the piano, because I’d never remembered +seeing a piano there before. I was half-way across the room before +I—before I——” The voice shuddered slowly away to silence. + +After a long pause, Lambert asked, “Before you did what, Mrs. Ives?” + +She gave a convulsive start, as though someone had let fall a heavy +hand across the nightmare. “Before I—saw her.” + +The voice was hardly a whisper, but there was no one in the room +beyond the reach of its stilled horror. + +“It was Mrs. Bellamy that you saw?” + +“Yes, I——” She swallowed—tried to speak—swallowed again, and lifted a +hand to her throat. “I’m sorry. Might I have a glass of water? Is that +all right?” + +In all that room no one stirred save the clerk of the Court, who +poured a glass of water with careful gravity and handed it up to her +over the edge of the box. She drank it slowly, as though she found in +this brief respite life itself. When she had finished it, she put it +down gently and said, “Thank you,” in a voice once more clear and +steady. + +“You were telling us that you saw Mrs. Bellamy.” + +“Yes. . . . I must have dropped the lamp immediately; all I remember +was that we were standing there in the dark. I heard Stephen say, +‘Don’t move. Where are the matches?’ He needn’t have told me not to +move. If I could have escaped death itself by stepping aside one inch +I could not have moved that inch. I said, ‘I have them here—in my +pocket.’ He said, ‘Strike one.’ I tried three times. The third time it +lit, and he went by me and knelt down beside her. He touched her wrist +and said, ‘Mimi, did it hurt? Did it hurt, darling?’ The match went +out and I started to strike another. He said, ‘Never mind. She’s +dead.’ I said, ‘I know it. Dead people can’t close their eyes, can +they?’ He said, ‘I have closed them. She’s been murdered. I got you +into this, Sue, and I’ll get you out of it. Where are you?’ I tried to +say, ‘Here,’ but I couldn’t. And then I thought that I heard something +move—outside—in the bushes—and I screamed. + +“I’d never done that before in my life. It didn’t sound like me at +all. It sounded like someone quite different. Steve whispered, ‘For +God’s sake, be still.’ I said, ‘I heard someone moving.’ He said ‘It +was I, coming toward you. Give me your hand.’ His was so cold on my +wrist that it was horrible. + +“I put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming again, and he +pulled me through the hall and on to the porch. I said, ‘Steve, we +can’t leave her there like that—we can’t.’ He said, ‘She doesn’t need +us any more. Get in the car.’ I pulled back, and he said, ‘Listen to +me, Sue. It doesn’t make any difference how innocent we are, if it is +ever known that we were in that room this evening, we’ll never be able +to make one human being in God’s world believe that we aren’t +guilty—and we’ll have to make twelve of them believe. I’ve got to get +you home. Get into the car.’ So I got in, and he drove me home.” + +She was silent, and the courtroom was silent too. To the red-headed +girl, it seemed as though for a space everyone had foregone even the +habit of breath and held it suspended until that voice should finish +its dreadful tale. She could see Patrick Ives in his corner by the +window. A long time ago he had buried his black head in his hands, and +he did not lift it now. His mother had placed one small gloved hand on +his knee. It rested there lightly, but she was not looking at him; her +eyes had never wavered from Sue Ives’s white face. Long ago the winter +roses had faded in her own, but it was as gravely and graciously +composed as on that first day. + +“Did you drive straight home, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Straight home. Stephen spoke two or three times; I don’t remember +saying anything at all. He told me to say that we’d driven over to +Lakedale, and then he said that everything would be all right, because +no one would know that Elliot had spoken to me, and no one could +possibly know that we had gone to the cottage. I remember nodding, and +then we were at our gate. Stephen said, ‘You might as well give me +that signal that we decided on before to let me know whether Pat’s +there; will you, Sue?’ I said, ‘Yes.’ He said, ‘You might ask him +whether he heard from her this evening.’ I said, ‘Steve, it isn’t us +that this is happening to, is it? It isn’t us—not Pat and you and I +and Mimi?’ He said, ‘Yes, it’s us. I’ll wait right here. Hurry, will +you?’ + +“I went into the house. All the lights were out except one in the +hall, but I went out through the study and the dining room to the +pantry. It connects with the servants’ quarters, and I wanted to make +sure that none of them were about, as I had to go up and unlock the +day nursery, and I was afraid that Kathleen Page might make a scene. +It was all dark and quiet; there wasn’t anyone there. I passed the ice +box as I came back, and I could see the fruit through the glass door. +I remembered that Pat couldn’t have taken it to Mother Ives, and I put +some on a plate and went upstairs. Her door was open; she always left +it open so that we could say good-night if we came in before eleven.” + +“Were you with her long?” + +“Oh, no, only a minute. I told her that Steve and I had driven over to +Lakedale instead of going to the movies, and kissed her good-night. +Then I went around the gallery and on up to the nursery wing. I +unlocked the door and pushed it open, but I didn’t go in. Pat was +sitting by the table, reading. The door to Miss Page’s room was +closed. He sat there looking at me for a moment, and then he stood up +and came into the hall, pulling the nursery door to behind him. He +said, ‘I didn’t know that you had it in you to play an ugly trick like +that, Sue.’ I said, ‘I didn’t know it either.’ I went down to the +study and lit the light—twice. I waited until I heard the car start, +and then I went up to my room and took off my clothes and went to bed. +There were several lights in the room, and I kept every one of them +burning until after the sun was up. In the morning I got up and +dressed and went to church, and it was just a little while after I got +home that we heard that Mimi’s body had been found. And Monday evening +both Stephen and I were put under arrest.” + +She was silent for a moment, and then said in a small, exhausted +voice, “That’s all. Must I wait?” + +Lambert said gravely and gently, “I’m afraid so. When was the first +time that you told this story, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Night before last—to you—after they found my finger print, you know.” + +“It is the full and entire account of how you spent the evening of the +nineteenth of June, 1926?” + +“Yes.” + +“To the best of your knowledge, you have omitted nothing?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Thank you; that will be all. Cross-examine.” + +Mr. Farr advanced leisurely toward the witness box and stood staring +thoughtfully for a long moment at its pale occupant. Under those +speculative eyes, the sagging shoulders straightened, the chin lifted. + +“You were perfectly familiar with the gardener’s cottage, were you +not, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Perfectly.” + +“You remembered even where the lamp stood in the hall?” + +“Yes. I used to go there often as a child.” + +“Nothing had been changed since then?” + +“I don’t know. I was only there for a few seconds.” + +“Not long enough to notice a change of any kind whatever?” + +“There was the piano; I remember that.” + +She sat very straight, watching him with those wide, bright eyes as +though he were some strange and dangerous beast. + +“Were you familiar with the back entrance from the River Road—to the +Thorne estate, Mrs. Ives?” + +“Yes.” + +“You could have found it at night quite easily?” + +“You mean by the lights of the automobile?” + +“Exactly.” + +“Yes.” + +“Were you aware that it was a shorter way to reach Orchards than going +back by way of Rosemont?” + +“Oh, yes; it was about three miles shorter.” + +“Why didn’t you take it?” + +“Because when we were in Lakedale we had no idea of going to the +cottage. We didn’t think of it until long after we had returned to +Rosemont.” + +“But why didn’t you think of it before? You knew that in all +probability Mrs. Bellamy was waiting for your husband at the cottage, +didn’t you?” + +The question was asked in tones of the gentlest consideration, but the +sentinel watching from the dark eyes was suddenly alert. + +“No, I didn’t know that at all. In the first place, I wasn’t sure that +she had gone there; in the second place, I wasn’t sure that she had +waited, even if she had gone.” + +“There was no harm in making sure, was there?” + +“I thought there was. My idea in seeing Stephen was to get him to talk +to Mimi; I hadn’t the faintest desire to take part in the humiliating +and painful scene that would have been inevitable if I had confronted +her.” + +“I see. Still, you were willing to confront her in her own home, +weren’t you?” + +“Yes.” She bit her lip in an effort to concentrate on that. “But that +wouldn’t have been tracking her down and spying on her, and by then——” + +“‘Yes’ is an answer, Mrs. Ives.” + +“You mean that it’s all the answer that you want?” + +“Exactly.” + +“You didn’t really want to know why I did it?” + +Under the level irony of her glance the prosecutor’s eyes hardened. +“For your own good, Mrs. Ives, I suggest that you do not attempt to +bandy language with me. You were not only willing to see her in her +home but not long after you went to seek her in the cottage, did you +not?” + +“Yes. By that time we were both desperately worried and I put my own +wishes aside.” + +“You wish us to understand that you went there on an errand of mercy?” + +“I am not asking you to understand anything. I was simply telling you +why we went.” + +“Exactly. Now, when you got to the cottage, Mrs. Ives, you say there +was no light?” + +“There was no light.” + +“But you fortunately remembered that this lamp was in the hall?” + +“Fortunately?” repeated Susan Ives slowly, “I remembered that there +was a lamp in the hall.” + +“How long has it been since you were at Orchards?” + +“I have not been there since my marriage—not for seven years.” + +“How long since you were in the cottage?” + +“I’m not sure—possibly a year or so before that.” + +“Were you a child nine years ago?” + +“A child? I was over twenty.” + +“I thought you told us that it was as a child that you went to the +cottage.” + +“I went occasionally after I was older. I was very fond of the old +gardener and his wife. They were German and very sensitive after the +outbreak of the war. We all used to go down from time to time to try +to cheer them up.” + +“Very considerate indeed—another errand of mercy. But about this lamp, +now, that you remembered so providentially after nine years. You are +quite sure that it wasn’t in the front parlour?” + +“Absolutely sure.” + +“It couldn’t have been standing on the little table that was +overturned by Mimi Bellamy’s fall?” + +“How could it possibly have been standing there?” + +“I was asking you. You are perfectly sure that it wasn’t standing on +that table, lighted, when you came in?” + +“I see.” The unwavering eyes burned brighter with that clear disdain. +“I didn’t quite understand. You mean am I lying, don’t you? I have +told you the truth; the lamp was on the table in the hall.” + +“Your Honour, I ask to have that reply stricken from the record as +unresponsive.” + +“It may be stricken from the record to the point where the witness +says, ‘The lamp was on the table in the hall.’” Judge Carver stared +down with stern, troubled eyes at the clear, unflinching face lifted +to his. “Mrs. Ives, the Court again assures you that you do yourself +no service by such replies and that they are entirely out of order. It +requests that you refrain from them.” + +“I will try to, Your Honour.” + +“Mrs. Ives, you have told us that when you were standing in darkness +you heard a sound that frightened you. Was it someone trying the +door?” + +“Oh, no; the door was open. It wasn’t anything as clear as that. I +thought first that it was someone moving in the bushes, but it was +probably simply my imagination.” + +“You didn’t hear anyone whistling?” + +“No.” + +“You are quite sure that neither of you locked the door?” + +“Absolutely. Why should we lock the door?” + +“I must remind you again, Mrs. Ives, that it is I who am examining +you. Now, you say that you went into the room ahead of Mr. Bellamy?” + +“Yes.” + +“How far were you from the body when you first saw it?” + +In the paper-white face the eyes dilated, suddenly, dreadfully. “I +don’t know. Quite near—three feet—four feet.” + +“You suspected that she was dead?” + +“I knew that she was dead. Her eyes were wide open.” + +“You did not go nearer to her than those three or four feet?” + +“No.” She forced the word through her lips with a dreadful effort. + +“You did not touch her?” + +“No—no.” + +“Then how did the bloodstains get on your coat?” + +At the sharp clang of that triumphant cry she shuddered and turned and +came back to him slowly from the small, haunted room. “Bloodstains? +There were no bloodstains on my coat.” + +“Do you still claim that the coat that you smuggled out of your house +Sunday morning was stained with grease from Mr. Bellamy’s car?” + +“No—no, I don’t claim that.” + +“That’s prudent of you, as Sergeant Johnson has testified that there +was no grease whatever on the car.” + +“I meant to explain that before,” said Sue Ives simply. “Only there +were so many other things that I forgot. It was kerosene from the +lamp—the coat was covered with it. I didn’t know how to explain it, so +I thought that I had better get rid of it.” + +“I see,” said the prosecutor grimly. “You’re a very resourceful young +woman, aren’t you?” + +“No,” said the clear, grave voice. “I don’t think that I’m +particularly resourceful.” + +“I differ from you. . . . Mrs. Ives, you didn’t intend to tell this +jury that you had been in the gardener’s cottage on the night of the +nineteenth of June, did you?” + +“Not if I could avoid doing so without perjuring myself.” + +“You decided to do so only when you were literally forced to it by +information that you found was in the state’s possession?” + +“It is hard for me to answer that by yes or no,” said Susan Ives. “But +I suppose that the fairest answer to it is yes.” + +“You had decided to withhold this vitally important information +because you and Stephen Bellamy had together reached the conclusion +that no twelve sane men could be found to accept the fantastic +coincidence that you and he were in the room in which this murder was +committed within a few minutes of this crime, and yet had nothing +whatever to do with it?” + +“I think that again the answer should be yes.” + +“You are still of that opinion?” + +“I no longer have any opinion.” + +“Why should you have changed your opinion that twelve sane men could +not possibly believe your story?” + +“I do not know whether they will believe me or not,” said Sue Ives, +her eyes, fearless and unswerving, on the twelve stolid, inscrutable +countenances raised to hers. “You see, I don’t know how true truth +sounds.” + +“I should imagine not,” said the prosecutor, his voice cruelly smooth. +“No further questions.” + +And at that Parthian shot the white lips in the white face before him +curved suddenly and amazingly into the lovely irony of a smile, a last +salute over the drawn swords before they were sheathed. + +“That will be all,” said Lambert’s voice gently. “You may stand down.” + +For a moment she did not move, but sat staring down with dark eyes to +which the smile had not quite reached, at the twelve enigmatic +countenances before her—at the slack, careless young one on the far +end; the grim elderly one next to it; the small, deep-set eyes above +the heavy jowls of that flushed one in the centre; the sleek attentive +pallor of the one next to the door. She opened her lips as though to +speak again, closed them with a small shake of her head, swept up +gloves, bag and fur with one swift gesture, and without a backward +glance was gone, moving across the cluttered space between her chair +and the box with that light, sure step that seemed always to move +across green grass, through sunlight and a little wind. She did not +even look at Stephen Bellamy, but in the little space between their +chairs their hands met once and clenched in greeting and swung free. + +“Your Honour,” said Lambert, in the quiet, tired voice so many leagues +removed from the old boom, “in view of Mrs. Ives’s evidence, I would +like to have Mr. Bellamy take the stand once more. I have only one or +two questions to put to him.” + +“He may take the stand,” said Judge Carver impassively. + +He took it steadily, the white face of horror that he had turned from +the day before schooled once more to the old courtesy and quiet. + +“Mr. Bellamy, you have heard Mrs. Ives’s evidence as to the +circumstance that led up to your visit to the gardener’s cottage and +of the visit to the cottage itself. Is her description is accord with +your own recollection?” + +“In complete accord.” + +“You would not change it in any particular?” + +“No. It is absolutely accurate.” + +“Nor add to it?” + +“Yes. There is something that I believe that I should add. Mrs. Ives +was not aware of the fact that I returned to the cottage again that +night.” + +If Lambert also was not aware of it, he gave no sign. “For what +purpose?” + +“I had no definite purpose—I did not wish to leave my wife alone in +the cottage.” + +“At what time did you return?” + +“Very shortly after I left Mrs. Ives at her home. I actually didn’t +know what I was doing. I took the wrong turn in the back road and +drove around for a bit before I got straightened out, but it couldn’t +have been for very long.” + +“How long did you stay?” + +“Until it began to get light; I didn’t look at the time.” + +“You did not disturb the contents of the cottage in any way?” + +“No; I left everything exactly as it was.” + +“Nor remove anything?” + +“Nothing—nothing whatever.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Bellamy. That will be all, unless Mr. Farr has any +questions.” + +“As a matter of fact, I have one or two questions,” remarked Mr. Farr, +leisurely but grim. “You, too, are highly resourceful, Mr. Bellamy, +aren’t you?” + +“I should hardly say that I had proved myself so.” + +“Well, you can reassure yourself. That extra set of automobile tires +had to be accounted for, hadn’t they?” + +“I should have accounted for them in any case.” + +“Should you, indeed? That’s very interesting, but hardly a responsive +answer to my question. I’ll be grateful if you don’t make it necessary +for me to pull you up on that again. Now, you say that you didn’t +touch anything in the cottage?” + +“I said that I did not disturb anything.” + +“Oh, you touched something, did you?” + +“Yes.” + +“What?” + +“I touched her hand.” + +“I see. You were looking for the rings?” + +“No. I didn’t think of the rings.” + +“They were still there?” + +“Until you asked me this minute I had not thought of them. I do not +believe that they were there.” + +“Mr. Bellamy, I put it to you that you returned to that cottage with +the express purpose of removing those rings, the necklace, and any +traces that you or Mrs. Ives may have left behind you in your previous +flight?” + +“You are wrong; I did not return for any of those purposes.” + +“Then for what purpose?” + +“Because I did not wish to leave my wife alone.” + +“You consider that a plausible explanation?” + +“Oh, no; simply a true one.” + +“She was dead, wasn’t she?” + +“She was dead.” + +“You knew that?” + +“Yes.” + +“You knew that you couldn’t do anything for her, didn’t you?” + +“I wasn’t sure.” The voice was as quiet as ever, but once more the +ripple of the clenched teeth showed in the cheek. “She was afraid of +the dark.” + +“Of the dark?” + +“Yes; she was afraid to be alone in the dark.” + +“She was dead, wasn’t she?” + +“Yes—yes, she was dead.” + +“You ask us to believe that you spent hours in momentary danger of +arrest for murder because a woman who was stone dead had been afraid +of the dark when she was alive?” + +“No. I don’t ask you to believe anything,” said Stephen Bellamy +gently. “I was simply telling you what happened.” + +“You say that you didn’t touch anything else in the cottage?” + +“Nothing else.” + +“How could you find your way about without a light?” + +“I had a light; I took the flashlight from my car.” + +“So that you could make a thorough search of the premises for anything +that had been left behind?” + +“We had left nothing behind.” + +“But you couldn’t have been sure of that, could you? A knife, perhaps? +A knife’s an easy thing to lose.” + +“We had no knife.” + +Mr. Farr greeted this statement with an expression of profound +skepticism. “Now, before I ask you to step down, Mr. Bellamy, I want +to make sure that you haven’t one final installment to add for our +benefit. That’s all that you have to tell us?” + +“That is all.” + +“Sure?” + +“Quite sure.” + +“This continued story that you have been presenting to us from day to +day has reached its absolutely ultimate installment?” + +“I have already said that I have nothing to add to my statement.” + +“And this is the same story that you were so sure that no twelve sane +men in the world would believe, isn’t it?” + +“Yes. It isn’t necessary to prove to me that I have been the fool of +the world,” said Stephen Bellamy quietly. “I willingly admit it. My +deepest regret is that my folly has involved Mrs. Ives too.” + +“You have had no cause to revise your opinion as to the skepticism +that your account of that night’s doings would arouse in any twelve +sane men, have you?” + +“Oh, yes, I have had excellent reason completely to revise it.” + +The low, pleasant voice seemed to jar on the prosecutor as violently +as a bomb. “And what reason, may I ask?” + +“At the time that I arrived at that conclusion I had naturally had no +opportunity to hear Mrs. Ives on the witness stand. Now that I have, +it seems absolutely impossible to me that anyone could fail to believe +her.” + +“That must be extremely reassuring for you,” remarked Mr. Farr in a +voice so heavily charged with irony that it came close to cracking +under the strain. “That will be all, thank you, Mr. Bellamy.” + +Mr. Lambert rose slowly to his feet. “The defense rests,” he said. + + +The red-headed girl watched them filing out through the door at the +back without comment, and without comment she accepted the cake of +chocolate and the large red apple. She consumed them in the same +gloomy silence, broken only by an occasional furtive sniff and the +application of a minute and inadequate handkerchief. + +“You promised me last night,” said the reporter accusingly, “that if +I’d go home you’d stop crying and be reasonable and sensible and——” + +“I’m not crying,” said the red-headed girl—“not so that anybody would +notice anything at all if they weren’t practically spying on me. It’s +simply that I’m a little tired and not exactly cheerful.” + +“Oh, it’s simply that, is it? Would you like my handkerchief too?” The +red-headed girl accepted it ungratefully. + +“The worst thing about a murder trial,” she said, “is that it +practically ruins everybody’s life. It’s absolutely horrible. They’re +all going along peacefully and quietly, and the first thing they know +they’re jerked out of their homes and into the witness box, and things +that they thought were safe and hidden and sacred are blazoned out in +letters three inches tall in every paper in the . . . That poor little +Platz thing, and that wretched Farwell man, and poor little Mrs. Ives +with her runaway husband, and Orsini with his jail sentence—it isn’t +decent! What have they done?” + +The reporter said, “What, indeed?” in the tone of one who has not +heard anything but the last three words. After a moment he inquired +thoughtfully. “Have you ever thought about getting married?” + +The red-headed girl felt her heart miss two beats and then race away +like a wild thing. She said candidly, “Oh, often—practically all the +time. All nice girls do.” + +“Do they?” inquired the reporter in a tone of genuine surprise. “Men +don’t—hardly ever.” He continued to look at her abstractedly for quite +a long time before he added, “Only about once in their lives.” + +He was looking at her still when the door behind the witness box +opened. + + +“Your Honour”—the lines in Mr. Lambert’s face stood out relentlessly, +but his voice was fresh and strong—“gentlemen of the jury, it is not +my intention to take a great amount of your time, in spite of the fact +that there devolves on me as solemn a task as falls to the lot of any +man—that of pleading with you for the precious gift of human life. I +do not believe that the solemnity of that plea is enhanced by undue +prolixity, by legal hairsplitting or by a confusion of issues +essentially and profoundly simple. The evidence in the case has been +intricate enough. I shall not presume to analyze it for you. It is +your task, and yours alone, to scrutinize, weigh, and dispose of it. +On the other hand, the case presents almost no legal intricacies; any +that are present will be expounded to you by Judge Carver when the +time comes. + +“When all is said and all is done, gentlemen, it is a very simple +question that you have to decide—as simple as it is grave and +terrible. The question is this: Do you believe the story that Stephen +Bellamy and Susan Ives have told you in this courtroom? Is their story +of what happened on that dreadful night a reasonable, a convincing and +an honest explanation as to how they became involved in the tragic +series of events that has blown through their peaceful homes like a +malignant whirlwind, wrecking all their dearest hopes and their +dearest realities? I believe that there can be but one answer to that +question, and that not so long from now you will have given that +answer, and that every heart in this courtroom will be the lighter for +having heard it. + +“These two have told you precisely the same story. That Stephen +Bellamy did not go quite to the end with it in the first instance is a +circumstance that I deplore as deeply as any one of you, but I do not +believe that you will hold it against him. He did not, remember, utter +one syllable that was not strictly and accurately truthful. It had +been agreed between them that if it were necessary to swerve one +hairbreadth from the truth, they would not swerve that hairbreadth. + +“In persuading Mrs. Ives that her only safety lay in not admitting +that she had been in the cottage that night, Mr. Bellamy made a grave +mistake in judgment, but it was the mistake of a chivalrous and +distraught soul, literally overwhelmed at the ghastly situation into +which the two of them had been so incredibly precipitated. + +“As for Susan Ives, she was so shaken with horror to the very roots of +her being—so stunned, so confused and confounded—that she was +literally moving through a nightmare during the few days that preceded +her arrest; and, gentlemen, in a nightmare the best of us do not think +with our accustomed clarity and cogency. She did what she was told to +do, and she was told that it would make my task easier if I did not +know that she had been near the cottage that night. That, alas, +settled it for her once and for all. She has always sought to make my +tasks easier. + +“Stephen Bellamy undoubtedly remembered the old precept that it takes +two to tell the truth—one to speak it and one to hear it. Possibly he +believed that if there were two to speak it and twelve to hear it, it +would be a more dangerous business. I do not agree with him. I believe +that twelve attentive and intelligent listeners—as you have amply +proved yourselves to be—make the best of all forums at which to +present the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That is +my belief, that was my considered advice, and it is my profound +conviction that before many hours have passed I shall be justified of +my belief. + +“Perhaps you have guessed that my relations to Susan Ives are not the +ordinary relations of counsel to client. Such, at any rate, is the +case, and I do not shirk one of its implications. There is no tie of +blood between us, but I am bound to her by every other tie of +affection and admiration. I can say that I believe she is as dear to +me as any daughter,—dearer, perhaps, than any daughter, because she is +what most men only dream that their daughter may be. For the first +time in my life I have offended her since I came to this +court—offended her because she believed that I was more loyal to her +welfare than her wishes. But she will forgive me even for that, +because she knows that I am only a stupid old man who would give every +hope that he has of happiness to see hers fulfilled, and who, when he +pleads for her life to-day, is pleading for something infinitely +dearer to him than his own. + +“If, later, you say to one another and to yourselves, ‘The old man is +prejudiced in her favour; we must take that into account,’ I say to +you, ‘And so you must—and so you must—well into account.’ I am +prejudiced because I have known her since she was so small that she +did not come to my knee; because I have watched her with unvarying +wonder and devotion from the days that she used to cling to me, +weeping because her black kitten had hurt its paw, or radiant because +there was a new daisy in her garden; because I have watched her from +those bright, joyous days to these dark and terrible ones, and never +once have I found a trace of alloy in her gold. I have found united in +her the traits we seek in many different forms—all the gallantry and +honesty of a little boy, all the gaiety and grace of a little girl, +all the loyalty and courage of a man, all the tenderness and beauty of +a woman. If you think I am prejudiced in her favour you will be right, +gentlemen. And if that fact prejudices me in your eyes, make the most +of it. + +“Of Stephen Bellamy I will say only this: If I had a daughter I would +ask nothing more of destiny than that such a man should seek her for +his wife—and you may make the most of that too. + +“On this subject I will not touch again, I promise. It is not part and +parcel of the speech of counsel for the defense to the jury in a +murder trial to touch on his feeling toward his clients. I am grateful +for the indulgence of both the Court and the prosecution in permitting +me to dwell on them at some length. During the course of Mrs. Ives’s +examination something as to our relation was inadvertently disclosed. +In any case, I should have considered it my duty to inform you of it, +as well as of every other fact in this case. I have now done so. + +“A few days ago I said to you that Susan Ives was rich in many things. +When I said that I was not thinking of money; I was referring to +things that are the treasured possessions, the precious heritage, of +many a humble and modest soul. Love, peace, beauty, security, +serenity, health—these the least of us may have. As I have said, I am +pretty close to being an old man now, and in my time I have heard much +talk of class feeling and class hatred. I have even been told that it +is difficult to get justice for the rich from the poor or mercy for +the poor from the rich. I believe both these statements to be equally +vile and baseless slanders. + +“In this great country of which you and I are proud and privileged +citizens, we are all rich—rich in opportunity and in liberty—and there +is no room in our hearts for grudging envy, for warped malice. We do +not say, ‘This woman is rich; she has breeding; she has intelligence +and culture and position, therefore she is guilty.’ We do not say, +‘This man is a graduate of one of our greatest universities. Five +generations of his ancestors have owned land in this country, and have +lived on it honourably and decently, gentlefolk of repute and power in +their communities; he is the possessor of a distinguished name and a +distinguished record, therefore he is a murderer!’ We do not say that. +No; you and I and the man in the street say, ‘It is impossible that +two people with this life behind them and a richer and finer one +before them should stoop to so low and foul a weapon as an assassin’s +knife and a coward’s blow in the dark.’ + +“But even in the strictly material sense of wealth, Mrs. Ives is not a +wealthy woman. I should like, in the simple interests of truth, to +dispel the legends of a marble heart moving through marble halls that +has been growing about her. She has lived for several happy years in +what you have heard described to you as a farm house—a simple, +unpretentious place that she made lovely with bright hangings and open +fires and books and prints and flowers. If you had rung her doorbell +before that fatal day in June, no powdered flunky would have opened it +to you. It might have been opened by Mrs. Ives herself, or by Mr. +Ives’s mother, or by a little maid in a neat dark frock and a white +apron. Whoever had opened it to you, you would have found within a +charming and friendly simplicity that might well cause you a little +legitimate envy; you would have found nothing more. + +“Sue Ives had what all your wives have, I hope—flowers in her garden, +babies in her nursery, sunshine in her windows. With these any woman +is rich, and so was she. As for Stephen Bellamy, he had no more than +any good clerk or mechanic—a little house, a little car, a little maid +of all work to help his pretty wife. That much for the legend of pride +and pomp and power and uncounted millions that has grown up about +these two. In the public press this legend has flourished +extravagantly; it is of little concern to you or to any of us, save in +so far as the preservation of truth is the concern of every one of us. + +“The story that you have heard from the lips of Mrs. Ives and Mr. +Bellamy is a refutation of every charge that has been brought against +them. It is a fearless, straightforward, circumstantial and coherent +account of their every action on the evening of that terrible and +momentous night. Granted that every witness produced by the state here +in order to confound and confuse them has spoken the absolute and +exact truth—a somewhat extravagant claim, some of you may feel—granted +even that, however, still you will find not one word of their +testimony that is not perfectly consistent with the explanation of +their actions that evening offered you by the defendants. + +“Not only does the state’s testimony not conflict with ours—it +corroborates it. The overheard telephone conversation, the knife from +the study, the stained flannel coat, the visit to Stephen Bellamy’s +house, the tire tracks in the mud outside the cottage, the +fingerprints on the lamp within—there is the state’s case, and there +also, gentlemen, is ours. These sinister facts, impressive and +terrible weapons in the state’s hands, under the clear white light of +truth become a very simple, reasonable and inevitable set of +circumstances, fully explained and fully accounted for. The more +squarely you look at them, the more harmless they become. I ask you to +subject them to the most careful and severe scrutiny, entirely +confident as to the result. + +“The state will tell you, undoubtedly, that in spite of what you have +heard, the fact remains that Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy had the +means, the motive, and the opportunity to commit this crime. It is our +contention that they had nothing of the kind. No weapon has been +traced to either of them; it would have been to all intents and +purposes physically impossible for them to reach the gardener’s +cottage, execute this murder and return to Stephen Bellamy’s house +between the time that the gasoline vender saw them leave Lakedale and +the time that Orsini saw them arrive at Mr. Bellamy’s home—a scant +forty minutes, according to the outside figures of their own +witnesses; not quite twenty-five according to ours. + +“But take the absolute substantiated forty-minute limit—from 9:15 to +9:55. You are asked to believe that in that time they hurled +themselves in a small rickety car over ten miles, possibly more, of +unfamiliar roads in total darkness, took a rough dirt cut-off, groped +their way through the back gates of the Thorne place to the little +road that led to the cottage, got out, entered the cottage, became +involved in a bitter and violent scene with Mimi Bellamy which +culminated in her death by murder; remained there long enough to map +out a campaign which involved removing her jewels from her dead body, +while fabricating an elaborate alibi—and also long enough to permit +Mr. Thorne, who has arrived on the piazza, ample time to get well on +his way; came out, got back into the invisible automobile and arrived +at Mr. Bellamy’s house, three miles away, at five minutes to ten. +Gentlemen, does this seem to you credible? I confess that it seems to +me so incredible—so fantastically, so grotesquely incredible—that I am +greatly inclined to offer you an apology for going into it at such +length. So much for the means, so much for the opportunity; now for +the motive. + +“There, I think, we touch the weakest point in the state’s case +against these two. That the state itself fully grasps its weakness, I +submit, is adduced from the fact that not one witness they have put on +the stand has been asked a single question that would tend to +establish either of the motives ascribed to them by the state—widely +differing motives, alike only in their monstrous absurdity. It is the +state’s contention, if it still cleaves to the theory originally +advanced, that Madeleine Bellamy was murdered by Susan Ives because +she feared poverty, and that she was aided and abetted by Stephen +Bellamy in this bloody business because he was crazed by jealousy. + +“I ask you to consider these two propositions with more gravity and +concentration than they actually merit, because on your acceptance or +rejection of them depends your acceptance or rejection of the guilt of +these two. You cannot dismiss them as too absurd for any earthly +consideration. You cannot say, ‘Oh, of course that wasn’t the reason +they killed her, but that’s not our concern; there may have been +another reason that we don’t know anything about.’ No, fortunately for +us, you cannot do that. + +“These, preposterous as they are, are the only motives suggested; they +are the least preposterous ones that the state could find to submit to +you. If you are not able to accept them the state’s case crumbles to +pieces before your eyes. If you look at it attentively for as much as +thirty seconds, I believe that you will see it crumbling. What you are +asked to believe is this: That for the most sordid, base, mercenary +and calculating motives—the desire to protect her financial future +from possible hazard—Susan Ives committed a cruel, wicked, and bloody +murder. + +“For two hours you listened to Susan Ives speaking to you from that +witness box. If you can believe that she is sordid, base, calculating, +mercenary, cruel, and bloody, I congratulate you. Such power of +credulity emerges from the ranks of mere talent into those of sheer +genius. + +“Stephen Bellamy, you are told, was her accomplice—driven stark, +staring, raving mad by the most bestial, despicable, and cowardly form +of jealousy. You have heard Stephen Bellamy, too, from that witness +box, telling you of the anguish of despair that filled him when he +thought that harm had befallen his beloved—if you can believe that he +is despicable, cowardly, bestial, and mad, then undoubtedly you are +still able to believe in a world tenanted by giants and fairies and +ogres and witches and dragons. Not one of them would be so strange a +phenomenon as the transformation of this adoring, chivalrous, and +restrained gentleman into the base villain that you are asked to +accept. + +“The state’s case, gentlemen! It crumbles, does it not? It crumbles +before your eyes. Means, motives, opportunity—look at them steadily +and clearly and they vanish into thin air. + +“If means, motives, and opportunity constitute a basis for an +accusation of murder, this trial might well end in several arrests +that would be as fully justified as the arrests of Susan Ives and +Stephen Bellamy. I make no such accusations; I am strong and sure and +safe enough in the proved innocence of these two to feel no need of +summoning others to the bar of justice. That is neither my duty nor my +desire, but it would be incompatible with the desire for abstract +truth not to point out that far stronger hypothetical cases might be +made out against several whose paths also have crossed the path of the +ill-starred girl who died in that cottage. + +“We come as close to establishing as perfect an alibi as it is likely +that innocent people, little suspecting that one will be called for, +would be able to establish. What alibi had practically anyone who has +appeared against these two for that night? The knife that Dr. Stanley +described to you might have been one of various types—such a knife as +might have been well discovered in a tool chest, in a kitchen drawer, +in the equipment of a sportsman. + +“You have analyzed the motives ascribed to the defendants. I submit +that, taken at random, three somewhat solider motives might be robbery +or blackmail or drunken jealousy. When one possible witness removes +himself to Canada, when another takes his life—they are safely out of +reach of our jurisdiction, but not beyond the scope of our +speculations. I submit that these specifications are at least fruitful +of interest. Abandoning them, however, I suggest to you that that +girl, young, beautiful, fragile, and unprotected in that isolated +cottage with jewels at her throat and on her fingers, was the natural +prey of any nameless beast roving in the neighbourhood—one who had +possibly stalked her from the time that she left her house, one who +had possibly been prowling through the grounds of this deserted estate +on some business, sinister or harmless. Ostensibly this was a case of +murder for robbery; it remains still the simplest and most natural +explanation—too simple and too natural by half for a brilliant +prosecutor, an ambitious police force, and frenzied public, all +clamouring for a victim. + +“Well, they have had their victims; I hope that they do not sleep +worse at night for the rest of their lives when they think of the +victims that they selected. + +“Two things the state has made no attempt to explain—who it was that +stole the note from Patrick Ives’s study and who it was that laughed +when Madeleine Bellamy screamed. Whoever took the note, it was not +Susan Ives. She had no possible motive in denying having taken it; she +freely admitted that she searched the study for some proof of her +husband’s duplicity, and she also admitted that Elliot Farwell had +informed her that he believed her husband was meeting Madeleine +Bellamy at the cottage that very night. The note, which we presume was +making a rendezvous, would in no way have added to her previous +information. Any one of six or eight servants or six or eight guests +may have intercepted it; whoever did so knew when and where Madeleine +Bellamy was to be found that night. + +“The laugh is more baffling and disconcerting still; the state must +find it mightily so. It will be instructive to see whether they are +going to ask you to believe that it was uttered by Stephen Bellamy as +he saw his wife fall. In my opinion only a degenerate or a drunken +monster would have chosen that moment for mirth. Possibly it is Mr. +Farr’s contention that he was both. Providentially, that is for you +and not for him to decide. + +“The state has still another little matter to explain to your +satisfaction. According to its theory, Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives +arrived at the scene of the crime in a car—in Mr. Bellamy’s car. The +murderer of Madeleine Bellamy did not arrive in a car—or at any rate, +no car was visible two minutes later in that vicinity. There were no +tire tracks in the space behind the house, and the state’s own +witnesses have proved that on both Stephen Bellamy’s visits his car +was left squarely in front of the cottage door. If someone left an +unlighted car parked somewhere down the main drive, as the state +contends, it was not he. His car would have been clearly visible to +any human being who approached the cottage. It will, as I say, be +instructive to see how the state disposes of this vital fact. + +“I have touched on these matters because I have desired to make clear +to you two or three factors that are absolutely incompatible with any +theory that the state has advanced. If they are to be disposed of in +the most remotely plausible fashion, some other theory must be +evolved, and I believe that you will agree with me that it is rather +late in the day to produce another theory. I have not touched on +them—and I wish to make this perfectly clear—on the ground that they +are in no way necessary to our defense. That defense is not dependent +on such intriguing details as who took the note, or who laughed, or +whether the murderer approached his goal on foot or in a car. The +defense that I advance is simple and straightforward and independent +of any other circumstances. + +“Of all the things that I have said to you, there is only one that I +hold it essential that you carry in the very core of your memory when +you leave this room on as solemn an errand as falls to the lot of any +man. This only: That the sole defense that I plead for Stephen Bellamy +and Susan Ives is that they are innocent—as entirely and unequivocally +innocent as any man of you in whose hands rests their fate; that this +foul and brutal murder was against their every wish, hope, or desire; +that it is to them as ghastly, as incredible, and as mysterious as it +is to you. That and that only is their defense. + +“It is not my task, as you know—as in time Judge Carver will tell +you—to prove them innocent. It is the state’s to prove them guilty. A +heavy task they will find it, I most truly believe. But I would have +you find them something more than not guilty. That is the verdict that +you may render with your lips, but with your hearts I ask you to +render another more generous and ungrudgingly. ‘Innocent’—a lovely, +valiant, and fearless word, a word untainted by suspicion or malice. A +verdict that has no place in any court, but I believe that all who +hear your lips pronounce ‘Not guilty’ will read it in your eyes. I +pray that they may. + +“I said to you that when you left this room you would be bound on the +most solemn of all errands. I say to you now that when you return you +may well be bound on the most beautiful one imaginable—you will return +in order to give life to two who have stood in the shadow of death. +Life! + +“You cannot give back to Susan Ives something that she has lost—a +golden faith and carefree security, a confidence in this world and all +its works. You cannot give back to Stephen Bellamy the dead girl who +was his treasure and delight, about whose bright head clustered all +his dreams. You cannot give back to them much that made life sweetest, +but, gentlemen, you can give them life. You can restore to them the +good earth, the clean air, the laughter of children, the hands of +love, starlight and firelight and sunlight and moonlight—and brightest +of all, the light of home shining through windows long dark. All these +things you hold in your hands. All these things are yours to give. +Gentlemen, I find it in my heart to envy you greatly that privilege, +to covet greatly that opportunity.” + +He sat down, slowly and heavily, and through the room there ran an +eager murmur of confidence and ease, a swift slackening of tension, a +shifting of suspense. And as though in answer to it, Farr was on his +feet. He stood silent for a moment, his hands clasped over the back of +the chair before him, his eyes, brilliantly inscrutable, sweeping the +upturned faces before him. When he lifted his voice, the familiar +clang was muted: + +“Your Honour, gentlemen, when my distinguished adversary rose to +address you an hour or so ago, he assured you that he was about to +take very little of your time. We would none of us grudge him one +moment that he has subsequently taken. He is waging a grim and +desperate battle, and moments and even hours seem infinitesimal +weapons to interpose between those two whose defense is intrusted to +him, and who stand this day in peril of their lives on the awful brink +of eternity itself. + +“The plea that has made to you is as eloquent and moving a one as you +will hear in many a long day; it is my misfortune that the one that I +am about to make must follow hard on its heels, and will necessarily +be shorn of both eloquence and emotion. It will be the shorter for +lack of them, but not the better. What I lack in oratory I shall +endeavour to supply in facts: facts too cold, hard, and grim to make +pleasant hearing—still, facts. It is my unwelcome duty to place them +before you; I shall not shrink from it. It will not be necessary for +me to elaborate on them. They will speak for themselves more +eloquently than I could ever hope to do, and I propose to let them do +so. + +“Before I marshal them before you, I will dispose as briefly as +possible of two or three issues that Mr. Lambert has seen fit to raise +in his speech to you. First, as to the wealth of Mrs. Ives. I cannot +see that the fact that she is wealthy is in any way a vital issue in +this case, but Mr. Lambert evidently considered it sufficiently +important to dwell on at considerable length. He managed very +skilfully to place before you the picture of a modest little farmhouse +with roses clambering over a cottage gate, presided over by an even +more modest chatelaine. Very idyllic and utterly and absolutely +misleading. + +“The little farmhouse is a mansion of some twenty-odd rooms, the roses +grow in a sunken garden as large as a small park; not many cottages +boast a swimming pool, a tennis court, a bowling green and a garage +for five cars—but Mrs. Ives’s cottage took these simple improvements +as a matter of course. Mr. Lambert drew your attention to the fact +that if you had rung a door-bell the lady herself might have hastened +to welcome your summons, and, he implies, to welcome you in to see how +simply she lived. + +“I doubt profoundly whether Mrs. Ives ever opened her door in her life +unless she was intending to pass through it, and I doubt even more +profoundly whether you would ever have been requested to cross the +threshold of her home. Mr. Lambert did admit that the bell might have +been answered by a little maid, but he failed to specify which one of +the five little maids it might have been. He added, in an even more +lyric vein, that Susan Ives had no more than any of your wives—no more +than roses in her garden, sunlight in her windows, babies in her +nursery. I confess myself somewhat taken aback. Are your wives the +possessors of an acre of roses, a hundred windows to let in sunshine, +a day and night nursery for your babies to play in, with a governess +in still a third room to supervise their play? If such is the case, +you are fortunate indeed. + +“As for Stephen Bellamy, Mr. Lambert has assured you that any mechanic +in the land was as well off as he. Well, possibly. The mechanics that +I know don’t have maids to help their pretty wives, and gardeners to +sleep over their pretty garages, but perhaps the ones that you know +do. + +“So much for the wealth of the defendants. I said at the outset that +it was a matter of no great importance, and in one sense it is not; in +a deeper sense, it is of the greatest possible significance. Not that +Susan Ives was, in the strictest sense of the word, a wealthy woman, +but because of the alchemy that had been wrought in her by the +sinister magic of what we may call the golden touch. + +“You all know the legend of Midas, I am sure—the tale of that unhappy +king who wished that every object that his fingers rested on might +turn to gold, and whose fingers strayed one day to his little +daughter’s hair and transformed her into a small statue—beautiful, +shining, brilliant, but cold and hard and inhuman as metal itself. +Long ago Curtiss Thorne’s fingers must have rested on his little +daughter’s hair, and what he made of his child then the woman is +to-day. The product of pride, of power, of privilege, of riches—Susan +Ives, proud, powerful, privileged, and rich—the golden girl, a +charming object of luxury in the proper surrounding, a useless +encumbrance out of them. + +“No one knew this better than the golden girl herself—she had had +bitter cause to know it, remember; and on that fatal summer afternoon +in June a drunken breath set the pedestal rocking beneath her feet. +She moved swiftly down from that pedestal, with the firm intention of +making it steady for all time. It is not the gold that we hold in our +hands that is a menace and a curse, gentlemen—not the shining counters +that we may change for joy and beauty and health and mercy—it is the +cold metal that has grown into our hearts. I hold no brief against +wealth itself. I hold a brief against the product of the Midas touch. + +“Mr. Lambert next introduced to you most skilfully a very dangerous +theme—the theme of the deep personal interest that he takes in both +defendants, more especially in Susan Ives. The sincerity of his +devotion to her it is impossible to doubt. I for one am very far from +doubting it. He loved the little girl before the fingers of Midas had +rested heavy on her hair; he sees before him still only those bright +curls of childhood clustering about an untarnished brow. Many of you +who have daughters felt tears sting in your eyes when he told you that +he loved her as his daughter—I, who have none, felt the sting myself. + +“But, gentlemen, I ask you only this: Are you, in all truth and +fairness, the most unbiased judges of your daughter’s characters? +Would you credit the word of an archangel straight from heaven who +told you that your daughter was a murderess, if that daughter denied +it? Never—never, in God’s world, and you know it! If, in your hearts, +you say to yourself, ‘He has known Susan Ives and loved her for many +years; he loves her still, so she must be all he thinks,’ then Mr. +Lambert’s warm eloquence will have accomplished its purpose and my +cold logic will have failed. + +“But I ask you, gentlemen, to use your heads and not your hearts. I +ask you to discount heavily not Mr. Lambert’s sincerity, nor his +affection, nor his eloquence, but his judgment and his credulity. +Platitudes are generally the oldest and profoundest of truths; one of +the most ancient and most profound of all is the axiom that Love is +blind. + +“So much for two general challenges that it has been my duty to meet; +the more specific ones of the note, the car, and the laugh, I will +deal with in their proper places. We are now through with +generalizations and down to facts. + +“These fall into two categories—the first including the events leading +up to and precipitating the crime, the second dealing with the +execution of the crime itself. + +“I propose to deal with them in their logical sequence. In the first +category comes the prime factor in this case—motive. Mr. Lambert has +told you that that is the weakest factor in the state’s case; I tell +you that it is the strongest. There has never come under my +observation a more perfect example of an overwhelming motive springing +from the very foundation of motivation—from character itself. + +“I want you to get this perfectly straight; it is of the most vital +importance. There is never any convincing motive for murder, in that +that implies an explanation that would seem plausible to the sane and +well-balanced mind. There is something in any such mind that recoils +in loathing and amazement that such a solution of any problem should +seem possible. It makes no difference whether murder is committed—as +it has been committed—for a million dollars or for five—in revenge for +a nagging word or for bestial cruelty—for a quarrel over a pair of +dice or over a pair of dark eyes—to us it seems equally abhorrent, +grotesque, and incredible. And so it is. But in some few cases we are +able to study the deep springs in which this monster lurks, and this +is one of them. + +“I ask you to concentrate now on what you have learned as to the +character of Susan Ives, from her own lips and from the lips of +others—the undisputed evidence that has been put before you. Forget +for a moment that she is small and slight, sweet-voiced, clear-eyed—a +lady. Look within. + +“From the time that we first see her, on the very threshold of +girlhood, to the time that you have seen her with your own eyes here, +she has shown a character that is perfectly consistent—a character +that is as resolute, as lawless, and as ruthless as you would find in +any hardened criminal in this land. At the first touch of constraint +or opposition she is metamorphosed into a dangerous machine, and woe +to the one that stands in its way. + +“Seven years ago, over the bitter opposition of her adoring father, +she decided to marry the man who had previously been Madeleine +Bellamy’s lover, and who had, deservedly or undeservedly, somewhat of +the reputation of the village scamp and ne’er-do-well. Her marriage to +him broke her father’s heart. Shortly thereafter the old man died, and +so bitter, relentless, and unforgiving is the heart of this daughter, +whom he had longed to cherish and protect, that not once since she +left it in pride and anger has she set foot within the boundaries of +her childhood’s home. + +“She returned, however, at the first opportunity to Rosemont; the +arrogance that consumed her like a flame made it essential that she +should be triumphantly reestablished on the grounds of her first +defeat. And the triumph was a rich and intoxicating one. Wealthy, +courted, admired, surrounded by a chorus of industrious flatterers, no +wonder that she became obsessed with a sense of her power and +importance. She was, in fact, undisputed queen of the little domain in +which she lived, and her throne seemed far more secure than most. + +“She was not precisely a benevolent monarch; poor little Kathleen Page +and Melanie Cordier have testified to that, but then they had made the +dangerous error of murmuring protests at the rule. A little judicious +browbeating and starvation reduced them to the proper state of +subjection, and all was well once more. Graciousness and generosity +itself to all who bent the knee at the proper angle, as her +mother-in-law and maid have testified, still, it required the merest +flicker of insubordination to set the steel fingers twitching beneath +the velvet glove. + +“Nothing more than fugitive rebellions had penetrated this absolute +monarchy, however, up to that bright summer afternoon when news +reached its sovereign that there was an aspirant to the throne—a +powerful pretender—an actual usurper, with the keys to the castle +itself in her hand. The blood of Elizabeth of England, of Catherine of +Russia, of Lucrezia of Italy rose in the veins of this other spoiled +child to meet that challenge. And, gentlemen, we know too well the +fate that befell those rash and lovely pretenders of old. + +“Enough of metaphor. From the moment that Susan Ives knew that the +beautiful daughter of the village dressmaker was trespassing on her +property, Madeleine Bellamy was doomed. + +“So much for the motive. Now for the means. We will take Susan Ives’s +own account of that evening—the account that was finally wrung from +her when she found, to her terror and despair, that the state had in +its hands evidence absolutely damning and conclusive. The telephone +call, Orsini’s vigil at the window, the tire tracks, the finger +prints—all these successive blows brought successive changes in the +fabric that the defendants were weaving for your benefit. + +“It became evident early in the trial that their original tale of +absolute innocence and ignorance would not bear inspection one minute, +but they continued industriously to cut their cloth to fit our case +until they were confronted with two or three little marks on the base +of a lamp. Then and then only they saw the hopelessness of their +plight, discarded the whole wretched, patched, tattered stuff, and +tried frantically to replace it by a fabric bearing at least the outer +pattern of candour. What candour under those circumstances is worth is +for you to decide. + +“Mr. Lambert assures you that they had both decided to stop short of +perjury. If the conclusion of Stephen Bellamy’s first story on that +stand was not in fact black perjury, whatever it may have been +technically, is again for you to decide. I have little doubt of that +decision. + +“But in Mrs. Ives’s account of that evening’s doings, you have the +outward and visible sign of truth, if not the inward and spiritual +state. The story that she finally told you I believe to be +substantially correct as far as outward events go—up to the point +where she entered the cottage door. From then on I believe it to be +the sheerest fabrication. Let us follow it to that point. + +“From the moment that Elliot Farwell informed her that Mimi Bellamy +was carrying on an intrigue with her husband, her every act is a +revelation. It is no pleasant task to inspect from then on the conduct +of this loyal, gentle, generous and controlled spirit, but let us set +ourselves to it. She has heard that her reign is threatened—what does +she do? + +“She returns to her home, concealing the rage and terror working in +her like a poison under a flow of laughter and chatter—and cocktails. +Susan Ives is a lawless individual, gentlemen—the law was made for +humbler spirits than hers. In her house, in this court, in that +darkened cottage, she has shown you unhesitatingly her defiance and +contempt of any law made by man—and of one made by God. + +“She is not as yet quite sure that Farwell has told her the truth; +there is too much arrogance in her to believe that danger actually +threatens her from that direction—but, under the smiling mask, behind +the clenched teeth, the poison is working. She goes to the hall to bid +Farwell good-bye and to warn him not to give her knowledge of the +intrigue away—perhaps already a prophetic sense of her share in this +dreadful business is formulating. And while she is speaking to him she +sees in the mirror Melanie Cordier, placing the note in the book. It +is the work of a minute to step into the study after Melanie has left, +abstract the note, master the contents, and return to the living room, +her guests, and Patrick. On the way back, she stopped in the hall long +enough to eavesdrop and get her cue. With that cue as to the +prospective poker game in her possession, her course was already +clear. She went up to Patrick Ives with a lie on her lips and a +blacker one in her heart, and told him that she was going to the +movies that night with the Conroys. + +“She then followed him again into the hall to spy on him while he +counted the bonds; she followed him back to the study after dinner to +spy on him again, to see where he put them; she got rid of him with a +lie, broke into his desk, confirmed her worst suspicions, and decided +definitely on a course of action. A telephone message to Stephen +Bellamy, another lie from the foot of the stairs to her unsuspecting +husband, and she was on her way. + +“Before she reached the gate, something went wrong, and she returned +to the house—possibly for the reason that she gave you, possibly for +another. At any rate, within a minute or so she was at her old task of +eavesdropping and spying, and a minute or so later than that Patrick +Ives was safely locked up, well out of the running when it came to +protecting the foolish girl at the cottage or the maddened one on her +way there. Susan Ives had successfully disposed of the greatest menace +to the execution of her scheme. Perhaps fuel was added to the flame by +what she heard from the room off the day nursery; perhaps she heard +nothing at all and merely wanted to get Patrick out of the way. It is +a matter of no great importance. She had accomplished her purpose and +was on her way again, to meet Stephen Bellamy. + +“It is the state’s contention that she went to that rendezvous with a +knife in her pocket and murder in her heart. Patrick Ives has told you +that the knife that the state put in evidence was not out of his +possession that evening; it is for you to decide whether you believe +him or not. But which knife struck the blow is of no great importance +either. The knife that murdered Madeleine Bellamy was, as you have +been told, a perfectly ordinary knife—such a knife as might be found +in any of your homes—in the kitchen, in the pantry, in the tool chest. +From any of these places Susan Ives might have procured one, cleansed +it and replaced it. We need not let which one she actually procured +give us great concern. + +“Susan Ives herself has touched very briefly on that drive with +Stephen Bellamy through the quiet, starlit summer night; she merely +confirms Stephen Bellamy’s account, which is neither very coherent nor +very convincing. The gist of it was that Sue Ives was occupied in +proving Mimi’s guilt and he with denying it. Some such conversation +may well have taken place. + +“The part that Stephen Bellamy played in the actual commission of this +murder is a more enigmatic one than that of Susan Ives, if not less +sinister. From the outset, it must have been perfectly clear to Mrs. +Ives’s exceptionally shrewd mind that, if she did not want Stephen +Bellamy at her heels as an avenging husband, she must lure him into +the rôle of an accomplice. This, by means best known to herself, she +accomplished. We have it on Stephen Bellamy’s own word that he entered +that little room with her and left it with her, and we know that he +sits beside her in this dock because they have elected to hang or go +free together. + +“Now as to what Mr. Lambert is pleased to refer to as their alibi, and +then I have done. + +“Of course, they have neither of them the shred of an alibi. Accepting +the fact that they left the gas station shortly after nine and reached +Stephen Bellamy’s at about ten, they would have had ample time to +reach the Thorne place by the River Road, confront the waiting girl +with the intercepted note, murder her, make good their escape, and +return to Bellamy’s by ten o’clock. Later, Bellamy returns to the +cottage alone to get the jewels, in order to give colour to the +appearance of robbery and to remove any traces of the crime that they +may have left behind them. Possibly it was then that he brought the +lamp from the hall and smashed it at the dead girl’s feet. By then +they had had time to work out a story in the remote possibility of +their eventual discovery pretty thoroughly. At any rate, he took Susan +Ives home and returned alone. I repeat, they have no alibi. + +“‘Well, what of the laugh?’ you say. ‘What of the car that was not +there?’ To which I echo, ‘What of them, indeed?’ + +“Gentlemen, just stop to think for one minute. Who heard that laugh? +Who failed to see that automobile? Who fixed the hour for this murder +at the moment that would come closest to establishing an alibi for +these two? Why, the brother of Susan Ives—the loving, the devoted, the +adoring brother, who stood up here in this room and told you that he +would do anything short of murder to protect his sister——” + +Lambert was on his feet, his eyes goggling in an ashen countenance. +“He said nothing of the kind! Your Honour——” + +“He did not say that he would not commit murder?” + +“He did not say that he would do anything short of it. Of all the——” + +“Then my memory is at fault,” remarked Mr. Farr blandly. “It was +certainly my impression that such was the substance of his remarks. If +it gives offense I withdraw it, and state simply that the person who +has fixed the hour of the murder for you is Mrs. Patrick Ives’s +brother, Mr. Douglas Thorne. There is not a shred of evidence save his +as to the moment at which the murder took place—not a shred. You are +entirely at liberty to draw your own conclusions from that. If you +decide that he was telling the absolute truth, I will concede even +that possibility. + +“Mr. Thorne simply tells you that at about nine-thirty on the evening +of the nineteenth of June he heard a woman scream and a man laugh +somewhere in the neighbourhood of the gardener’s cottage at Orchards. +He adds that at the time he attached no particular importance to it, +as he thought that it may have been young people sky-larking in the +neighbourhood—and he may have been perfectly right. It no more +establishes the hour of Madeleine Bellamy’s murder than it establishes +the hour of the deluge. + +“It is, in fact, perfectly possible that the murder took place after +ten o’clock, after the visit to the Bellamy home and the alleged +search along the road to the Conroys. Only one thing is certain: If it +was nine-thirty when Mr. Thorne walked up those cottage steps, and if +at that time there was no car in sight, then the hour of the murder +was not nine-thirty. It may have been before that hour, it may have +been after it. It was not then. + +“So much for Mr. Lambert’s trump cards, the laugh and the car. There +remains the theft of the note, which he claims Mrs. Ives had no +interest in denying. Of course she had every interest in denying it. +If she admitted that she had found the note, then she would be forced +to admit to the jury that she knew positively that Mimi was waiting in +the cottage, and that did not fit in with her story at all. So she +simply denies that she took it. And there goes their last trump. + +“Stripped of glamour, of emotion, of eloquence, it is the barest, the +simplest, the most appallingly obvious of cases, you see. There is not +one single link in the chain missing—not one. + +“Unless someone came to you here and said, ‘I saw the knife in Susan +Ives’s hand, I saw it rise, I saw it fall, I heard the crash of that +girl’s body and saw the white lace of her frock turn red’—unless you +heard that with your own ears, you could not have a clearer picture of +what happened in that room. Not once in a thousand murder cases is +there an eyewitness to the crime. Not once in five hundred is there +forged so strong a chain of evidence as now lies before you. + +“There was only one person in all the world to whom the death of +Madeleine Bellamy was a vital, urgent, and imperative necessity. The +woman to whom it was all of this—and more, far more, since words are +poor substitutes for passions—has told you with her own lips that at +ten o’clock on that night she stood over the body of that slain girl +and saw her eyes wide in the dreadful and unseeing stare of death. +When Susan Ives told you that, she told you the truth; and she told +you the truth again when she said that when you knew that she had +stood there, she did not believe that it would be possible for you to +credit that the one fact had no connection with the other. Nor do I +believe it, gentlemen—nor do I believe it. + +“By her side, in that room, stood Stephen Bellamy. By his own +confession it was he who closed the eyes of that slain girl, he who +touched her hand. By his own confession he has told you that he did +not believe it possible that you would credit that he stood there at +that time and yet had no knowledge of her death. Nor do I believe it, +gentlemen—nor do I believe it. + +“Mr. Lambert has told you that to him has fallen the most solemn task +that can fall to the lot of any man—that of pleading for the gift of +human life. There is a still more solemn task, I believe, and that +task has fallen to me. I must ask you not for life but for death. + +“The law does not exact the penalty of a life for a life in the spirit +of vengeance or of malice. It asks it because the flame of human life +is so sacred a thing that it is business of the law to see that no +hand, however powerful, shall be blasphemously lifted to extinguish +that flame. It is in order that your wives and daughters and sisters +may sleep sweet and safe at night that I stand before you now and tell +you that because they lifted that hand, the lives of Stephen Bellamy +and Susan Ives are forfeit. + +“These two believed that behind the bulwarks of power, of privilege, +of wealth, and of position, they were safe. They were not safe; they +have discovered that. And if those barriers can protect them now, if +still behind them they can find shelter and security and a wall to +shield them as they creep back to their ruined hearthstones, then I +say to you that the majesty of the law is a mockery and the sacredness +of human life is a mockery, and the death penalty in this great state +is a mockery. + +“There was never in this state a more wicked, brutal, and cold-blooded +murder than that of Madeleine Bellamy. For Susan Ives and Stephen +Bellamy, the two who now stand before you accused of that murder, I +ask, with all solemnity and fully aware of the tragic duty that I +impose on each one of you, the verdict of guilty of murder in the +first degree. If you can find it in your hearts, in your souls, or +your consciences to render any other verdict, you are more fortunate +than I believe you to be.” + +In the hushed silence that followed his voice, all eyes turned to the +twelve who sat there unmoving, their drawn, pale faces, tired-eyed and +tight-lipped, turned toward the merciless flame that burned behind the +prosecutor’s white face. + +The red-headed girl asked in a desolate small voice that sounded very +far away, “Is it all over now? Are they going now?” + +“No—wait a moment; there’s the judge’s charge. Here, what’s Lambert +doing?” + +He was on his feet, swaying a little, his voice barely audible. + +“Your Honour, a note has been handed to me this moment. It is written +on the card of the principal of the Eastern High School, Mr. Randolph +Phipps.” + +“What are the contents of this note?” + +Lambert settled his glasses on his nose with a shaken hand. “It +says—it says: + + “My dear Mr. Lambert: + + “Before this case goes to the jury, I consider it my duty to lay + before them some knowledge of the most vital importance that is my + possession, and that for personal reasons I have withheld up to the + present time, in the hope that events would render it unnecessary + for me to take the stand. Such has unfortunately not been the case, + and I therefore put myself at your disposal. Will you tell me what + my next step should be? The facts are such as make it imperative + that I should be permitted to speak. + + “Randolph Phipps.” + +Judge Carver said slowly, “May I see the note?” Lambert handed it up +in those shaking fingers. “Thank you. A most extraordinary +performance,” commented the judge dispassionately. After a moment he +said more dispassionately still: + +“The Court was about to adjourn in any case until to-morrow morning. +It does not care to deliver its charge to the jury at this late hour +of the day, and we will therefore convene again at ten to-morrow. In +the meantime the Court will take the note under advisement. See that +Mr. Phipps is present in the morning. Court is dismissed.” + +“I don’t believe that I’ll be here in the morning,” said the +red-headed girl in that same small monotone. + +“Not be here?” The reporter’s voice was a howl of incredulity. “Not be +here, you little idiot? Did you hear what Lambert read off that card?” + +“I don’t think that I’ll live till morning,” said the red-headed girl. + +The seventh day of the Bellamy trial was over. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The red-headed girl had not realized how tired she was until she heard +Ben Potts’s voice. He stood there as straight as ever, but where were +the clear bugle tones that summoned the good burghers of Redfield +morning after morning? A faint, a lamentable, echo of his impressive +“Hear ye! Hear ye!” rang out feebly, and the red-headed girl slumped +back dispiritedly in her chair, consumed with fatigue as with a fever. + +“Sleep well?” inquired the reporter with amiable anxiety. + +The red-headed girl turned on him eyes heavy with scorn. “Sleep?” she +repeated acidly. “What’s that?” + +Judge Carver looked as weary as Ben Potts sounded, and the +indefatigable Mr. Farr looked blanched and bitten to the bone with +something deeper than fatigue. Only Mr. Lambert looked haler and +heartier than he had for several interminable days; and the faces of +Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives were as pale, as controlled, and as +tranquil as ever. + +Judge Carver let his gavel fall heavily. “The Court has given careful +consideration as to the advisability of admitting the evidence in +question last night, and has decided that it may be admitted. Mr. +Lambert!” Mr. Lambert bounded joyfully forward. “Is the Court correct +in understanding that Mr. Phipps is your witness?” + +“Quite correct, Your Honour.” + +“Let him be called.” + +“Mr. Randolph Phipps!” + +The principal of Eastern High School was a tall man; there was dignity +in the way he held his head and moved his long, loose limbs, but all +the dignity in the world could not still the nervous tremor of his +hands or school the too sensitive mouth to rigidity. Under straight, +heavy brows, the eyes of a dreamer startled from deep sleep looked out +in amazement at a strange world; the sweep of dark hair above the wide +brow came perilously close to being Byronic; only the height of his +cheek bones and the width of his mouth saved him from suggesting a +matinée idol of some previous era. He might have been thirty-five, or +forty, or forty-five. His eyes were eighteen. + +“Mr. Phipps, it is the understanding of this court that you have a +communication to make of peculiar importance. You understand that in +making that statement you will, of course, be subject to the usual +course of direct and cross-examination?” + +“I understand that—yes.” + +“Very well. You may proceed with the examination, Mr. Lambert.” + +“Mr. Phipps, where were you on the night of the nineteenth of June?” + +“On the night of the nineteenth of June,” said Mr. Phipps, in the +clear, carrying voice of one not unaccustomed to public speaking, “I +spent about three hours on the Thorne estate at Orchards. Some things +occurred during that time that I feel it my duty to make known to the +jury in this case.” + +“What were you doing on the Thorne place?” + +“I suppose that I was doing what is technically known as trespassing. +It did not occur to me at the time that it was a very serious offense, +as I knew the place to be uninhabited—still, I suppose that I was +perfectly aware that I had no business there.” + +“You had no especial purpose in going there?” + +“Oh, yes; I went there because I had selected it as a pleasant place +for a picnic supper.” + +“You were alone?” + +“No—no, I was not alone.” Mr. Phipps suddenly looked forty-five and +very tired. + +“Other people were accompanying you on this—this excursion?” + +“One other person.” + +“Who was this other person?” + +“A friend of mine—a young lady.” + +“What was the name of this young woman?” + +“Is it necessary to give her name? I hope—I hope with all my +heart—that that will not be necessary.” The low, urgent, unhappy voice +stumbled in its intensity. “My companion was quite a young girl. We +both realize now that we committed a grave indiscretion, but I shall +never forgive myself if my criminal stupidity has involved her.” + +“I am afraid that we shall have to have her name.” + +“I am a married man,” said Mr. Phipps, in a clear voice that did not +stumble. “I am placing this information before the Court at no small +sacrifice to myself. It seems to me to place too heavy a penalty on my +decision to come forward at this moment if you ask me to involve +another by so doing. The girl who was with me that evening was one of +my pupils; she is at present engaged to a young man to whom she is +entirely devoted; publicity of the type that this means is in every +way abhorrent to her. I request most urgently that she shall not be +exposed to it.” + +“Mr. Phipps,” said Judge Carver gravely, “you have been permitted to +take the stand at your own request. It is highly desirable that any +information, of the importance that you have implied that in your +possession to be, should be as fully corroborated as possible. It is +therefore essential that we should have the name of this young woman.” + +“Her name is Sally Dunne,” said Mr. Phipps. + +“Is she also prepared to take the stand?” + +“She is prepared to do whatever is essential to prevent a miscarriage +of justice. She is naturally extremely reluctant to take the stand.” + +“Is she in court?” + +“She is.” + +“Miss Dunne will be good enough not to leave the courtroom without the +Court’s permission. You may proceed, Mr. Phipps.” + +“We arrived at Orchards at a little after eight,” said Mr. Phipps. +“Miss Dunne took the half-past-seven bus from Rosemont, left it a +short distance beyond Orchards, and walked back to the spot where I +had arranged to meet her, just inside the gate. We did not arrive +together, as I was apprehensive that it might cause a certain amount +of gossip if we were seen together.” + +“How had you come to choose Orchards, Mr. Phipps?” + +“Miss Dunne had on several occasions commented on the beauty of the +place and expressed a desire to see it more thoroughly, and it was in +order to gratify that desire that the party was planned. As I say, we +met at the gate and walked on up the drive past the lodge and the +little driveway that leads to the gardener’s cottage to a small +summerhouse, about five hundred feet beyond the cottage itself. It +contained a little furniture—a table and some chairs and benches—and +it was there that we decided to have our supper. Miss Dunne had +brought a luncheon box with her containing fruit and sandwiches, and +we spread it on the table and began to eat. Neither of us was +particularly hungry, however, and we decided to keep what remained of +the food—about half the contents of the box, I think—in case we wanted +it later, and to do some reading before it got too dark to see. I had +brought with me the _Idylls of the King_, with the intention of +reading it aloud.” + +“The book is of no importance, Mr. Phipps.” + +“No,” said Mr. Phipps, in a tone of slight surprise. “No, I suppose +not. You are probably quite right. Well, in any case, we read for +quite a while, until it began to get too dark to see, and after that +we sat there conversing.” + +The fluent voice with its slightly meticulous pronunciation paused, +and Lambert moved impatiently. “And then, Mr. Phipps?” + +“Yes. I was trying to recollect precisely what it was that caused us +to move from the summerhouse. I think that it was Miss Dunne who +suggested that it was rather close and stuffy there, because of the +fact that the structure was smothered in vines; she asked if there +wasn’t somewhere cooler that we could go to sit. I said: ‘There’s the +gardener’s cottage. We might try the veranda there.’ You could just +see the roof of it through the trees. I pointed it out to her, and we +started——” + +“You were familiar with the layout of the estate?” + +“Oh, quite. That was one of the principal reasons why we had gone +there. I had once done some tutoring in Latin and physics with Mr. +Thorne’s younger son Charles—the one who was killed in the war. We had +been in the habit of using the summerhouse, which was his old +playhouse, as a schoolroom.” + +“That was some time ago?” + +“About fifteen years ago—sixteen perhaps. I had just graduated from +college myself, and Charles Thorne was going to Princeton that fall.” + +“But you still remembered your way about?” + +“Oh, perfectly. I was about to say that we did not approach it from +the main drive, but cut across the lawns, pushed through the shrubbery +at the back and came up to it from the rear. We had just reached the +little dirt drive back of the cottage, and were perhaps a hundred feet +away from the house itself, when we heard voices, and Miss Dunne +exclaimed: ‘There’s someone in the cottage. Look, the side window is +lighted.’ I was considerably startled, as I had made inquiries about +the gardener and knew that he was in Italy. + +“I stood still for a moment, debating what to do next, when one of the +voices in the cottage was suddenly raised, and a woman said quite +clearly, ‘You wouldn’t dare to touch me—you wouldn’t dare!’ Someone +laughed and there was a little scuffling sound, and a second or so +after that a scream—a short, sharp scream—and the sound of something +falling with quite a clatter, as though a chair or a table had been +overturned. + +“I was in rather a nervous and overwrought state of mind myself that +evening, and before I thought what I was doing I laughed, quite +loudly. Miss Dunne whispered, ‘Be careful! They’ll hear you.’ Just as +she spoke, the light went out in the cottage and I said, ‘Well, Sally, +evidently we aren’t the only indiscreet people around here this +evening. I’d better get you out of this.’ + +“Just as I was speaking I heard steps on the main driveway and the +sound of someone whistling. The whistling kept coming closer every +second, and I whispered, ‘Someone’s coming in here. We’d better stand +back in those bushes by the house.’ There were some very tall lilacs +at the side of the house under the windows, and we tiptoed over and +pushed back into them. After a minute or so, we heard someone go up +the steps, and then a bell rang inside the house. There wasn’t any +sound at all for a minute; then we could hear the steps coming down +the porch stairs again, and a moment later heard them on the gravel, +and a moment later still they had died away. + +“I said, ‘That was a close call—too many people around here entirely. +Let’s make it two less.’ We tiptoed out past the cottage to the main +road and started back toward the lodge gates, walking along the grass +beside the road in order not to make any noise. We were almost back to +the gates when Miss Dunne stopped me.” + +“Do you know what time it was, Mr. Phipps?” + +“I am not sure of the time. I looked at my watch last when it began to +get too dark to read—shortly before nine. We did not start for the +cottage until a few minutes later, and it is my impression that it +must have been between quarter to ten and ten. We had been walking +very slowly, but even at that pace it should not take more than twenty +minutes.” + +“It was dark then?” + +“Oh, yes; it had been quite dark for some time, though it was possible +to distinguish the outline of objects. It was a very beautiful +starlight night.” + +“Quite so. What caused Miss Dunne to stop you?” + +“She exclaimed suddenly, ‘Oh, good heavens, I haven’t got my lunch +box! I must have left it in the bushes by the cottage.’ I said, +‘Perhaps you left it in the summerhouse,’ but she was quite sure that +she hadn’t, as she remembered distinctly thinking just before we +reached the cottage that it was a nuisance lugging it about. She was +very much worried, as it had her initial stenciled on it in rather a +distinctive way, and she was afraid that someone that she knew might +possibly find it and recognize it, and that if they returned it, her +parents might learn that she had been at Orchards that night.” + +“Her parents were not aware of this expedition?” + +“They were not, sir. They had both gone to New Hampshire to attend the +funeral of Mr. Dunne’s mother.” + +“Proceed, Mr. Phipps.” + +“Miss Dunne seemed so upset over the loss of the box that I finally +agreed to go back with her to look for it, though there seemed to me a +very slight chance of anyone identifying it, and I did not +particularly care to risk arousing anyone who still might be in the +cottage. I had a flashlight, however, and we decided to make a hurried +search as quietly as possible; so we started back, retracing our steps +and keeping a sharp lookout for the box. + +“When we got to the dirt cut-off leading to the cottage from the main +driveway, we took it and approached as quietly as possible, standing +for a moment just at the foot of the steps where the lilac bushes +began and listening to see whether we could hear anything within. Miss +Dunne said, ‘There’s not a sound, and no light either. I don’t believe +there’s a soul around.’ + +“I said, ‘Someone has closed the windows and pulled down the shades in +this front room. It was open when we were here before.’ Sally said, +‘Well, never mind—let’s look quickly and get away from here. I think +it’s a horrid place.’ I turned on the flashlight and said, ‘We were +much farther back than this.’ She said, ‘Yes; we were beyond these +windows. Look! what’s this?’ + +“Something was glittering in the grass at the side of the steps, and I +bent down and picked it up. It was a small object of silver and black +enamel. I turned the light on it, and Miss Dunne said, ‘It’s one of +those cigarette lighters. Look, there is something written on it. It +says, _Elliot from Mimi, Christmas_.’ + +“Just then I heard a sound that made me look up. I said, ‘Listen, +that’s a car.’ And I no more than had the words out of my mouth when I +saw its headlights coming around the corner of the cut-off. I +whispered, ‘Stand still—don’t move!’ because I could see that the +headlights wouldn’t catch us, as we were standing far back from the +road; but Miss Dunne had already pushed back into the shrubbery about +the house. I stood stock-still, staring at the car, which had drawn up +at the steps. It was a small car—a runabout, I think you call it——” + +“Could you identify the make, Mr. Phipps?” + +“No, sir; I am not familiar with automobiles. Just a small dark, +ordinary-looking car. Two people got out of it—a man and a woman. They +stood there for a moment on the steps, and when I saw who they were I +came very close to letting out an exclamation of amazement. They went +up the steps toward the front door.” + +“Were they conversing?” + +“Yes, but in low voices. I couldn’t hear anything until he said quite +clearly, ‘No, it’s open—that’s queer.’ They went in, and I whispered +to Miss Dunne, ‘Do you know who that was? That was Stephen Bellamy, +with Mrs. Patrick Ives.’ Just as I spoke I saw a light go on in the +hall, and a second or so later it disappeared and one sprang up behind +the parlour shades. I was just starting over toward Miss Dunne when +there was a crash from the parlour—a metallic kind of a crash, like +breaking glass, and the light went out. I whispered, ‘Come on Sally; +I’m going to get out of this!’ She started to come toward me, and +someone inside screamed—a most appalling sound, as though the person +were in mortal terror. I assure you that it froze me to the spot, +though it was only the briefest interval before I again heard voices +on the porch.” + +“Could you see the speakers, Mr. Phipps?” + +“No; not until they were getting into the car. I was at this time +standing just around the corner of the house, and so could not see the +porch.” + +“Could you distinguish what they were saying?” + +“Not at first; they were both speaking together, and it was very +confusing. It wasn’t until they appeared again in the circle of the +automobile lights that I actually distinguished anything more than a +few fragmentary words. Mr. Bellamy had his hand on Mrs. Ives’s wrist +and he was saying——” + +Mr. Farr was on his feet, but much of the tiger had gone out of his +spring. “Does the Court hold that what this witness claims that he +heard one person say to another person is admissible evidence?” + +“Of course it is admissible evidence!” Lambert’s voice was frantic +with anxiety. “Words spoken on the scene of the crime, within a few +minutes of the crime——What about the rule of _res gestæ_?” + +Mr. Farr made an unpleasant little noise. “A few minutes? That’s what +you call three quarters of an hour? When ejaculations made within two +minutes have been ruled out after _res gestæ_ has been invoked?” + +“It has been interpreted to admit whole sentences at a much——” + +“Gentlemen”—Judge Carver’s gavel fell with an imperious crash—“you +will be good enough to address the Court. Am I correct in +understanding that what you desire is a ruling on the admissibility of +this evidence, Mr. Farr?” + +“That is all that I have requested, Your Honour.” + +“Very well. In view of the gravity of this situation and the very +unusual character of the testimony, the Court desires to show as great +a latitude as possible in respect to this evidence. It therefore rules +that it may be admitted. Is there any objection?” + +“No objection,” said Mr. Farr, with commendable promptness, rallying a +voice that sounded curiously flat. “It has been the object—and the +sole object—of the state throughout this case to get at the truth. It +is entirely willing to waive technicalities wherever possible in order +that that end may be obtained. . . . No objection.” + +“You may proceed, Mr. Phipps.” + +“Mr. Bellamy was saying, ‘It makes no difference how innocent we are. +If it were ever known that we were in that room tonight, you couldn’t +get one person in the world to believe that we weren’t guilty, much +less twelve. I’ve got to get you home. Get into the car.’ And they got +into the car and drove off.” + +“And then, Mr. Phipps?” + +“And then, sir, I said to Miss Dunne, ‘Sally, that sounds like the +voice of prophecy to me. If no one would believe that they were +innocent, no one would believe that we are. Never mind the lunch box; +I’m going to get you home too.’” + +“You were aware that a murder had been committed?” + +“A murder? Oh, not for one moment!” The quiet voice was suddenly +vehement in its protest. “Not for one single moment! I thought simply +that for some inexplicable reason Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives had been +almost suicidally indiscreet and had fortunately become aware of it at +the last moment. It brought my own most culpable indiscretion all too +vividly home to me, and I therefore proceeded to escort Miss Dunne +back to her home, where I left her.” + +“Yes—exactly. Now, Mr. Phipps, just one or two questions more. On your +first visit to the cottage, when you heard the woman’s voice cry, +‘Don’t dare to touch me,’ both the front and the rear of the cottage +were under your observation, were they not?” + +“At different times—yes.” + +“Would it have been possible for an automobile to be at any spot near +the cottage while you were there without your attention being drawn to +the fact?” + +“It would have been absolutely impossible.” + +“It could not have stood there without your seeing it?” + +“Not possibly.” + +“Nor have left without your hearing it?” + +“Not possibly.” + +“Did you hear or see such a car on that visit to the cottage, Mr. +Phipps?” + +“I saw no car and heard none.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Phipps; that will be all.” + +“Well, not quite all,” said Mr. Farr gently. Mr. Phipps shifted in his +chair, his eyes under their dark brows luminous with apprehension. +“Mr. Phipps, at what time did you reach your home on the night of the +nineteenth of June?” + +“I did not return to my home. It was closed, as my family—my wife and +my two little girls—were staying at a little place on the Jersey coast +called Blue Bay. I had taken a room at the Y. M. C. A.” + +“At what time did you return to the Y. M. C. A.?” + +“I did not return there,” said Mr. Phipps, in a voice so low that it +was barely audible. + +“You did not return to the Y. M. C. A.?” + +“No. By the time that I had left Miss Dunne at her home I decided that +it was too late to return to the Y. M. C. A. without rendering myself +extremely conspicuous, and as I was not in the least sleepy, I decided +that I would take a good walk, get a bite to eat at one of the +hand-out places in the vicinity of the station, and catch the first +train—the four-forty-five—to New York, where I could get a boat to +Blue Bay and spend Sunday with my family.” + +“You mean that you did not intend to go to bed at all?” + +“I did not.” + +“And you carried out this plan?” + +“I did.” + +“What time did you leave Miss Dunne at her home, Mr. Phipps?” + +“At about quarter to one.” + +“What time did you start from the Orchards for home?” + +“We started from the lodge gates at a little before eleven.” + +“How far is it from there to Miss Dunne’s home in Rosemont?” + +“Just short of four miles.” + +“It took you an hour and three-quarters to traverse four miles?” + +“Yes. The last bus from Perrytown to Rosemont goes by Orchards at +about quarter to eleven. We missed it by five or six minutes and were +obliged to walk.” + +“It took you over an hour and three quarters to walk less than four +miles?” + +“We walked slowly,” said Mr. Phipps. + +“So it would seem. Now, did anyone see you leave Miss Dunne at her +door, Mr. Phipps?” + +“No one.” + +“You simply said good-night and left her there?” + +“I said good-night,” said Mr. Phipps, “and left her at her door.” + +“You did not go inside at all?” + +Mr. Phipps met the suave challenge with unflinching eyes. “I did not +set my foot inside her house that night.” + +“Your Honour,” asked Mr. Lambert, in a voice shaken with righteous +wrath, “may I ask where these questions are leading?” + +“The Court was about to ask the same thing. . . . Well, Mr. Farr?” + +“I respectfully submit that it is highly essential to test the +accuracy of Mr. Phipps’ memory as to the rest of the events on the +night which he apparently remembers in such vivid detail,” said Mr. +Farr smoothly. “And I assume that he is open to as rigorous an +inspection as to credibility as the defense has seen fit to lavish on +the state’s various witnesses. If I am in error, Your Honour will +correct me.” + +“The Court wishes to hamper you as little as possible,” said Judge +Carver wearily. “But it fails to see what is to be gained by pressing +the question further.” + +“I yield to Your Honour’s judgment. Did anyone that you know see you +after you left Miss Dunne that night, Mr. Phipps?” + +“Unfortunately, no,” said Mr. Phipps, in that low, painful voice. “I +saw no one until I reached my wife in Blue Bay at about eleven o’clock +the following morning.” + +“Did you tell your wife of the events of the night?” + +“No. I told my wife that I had spent the night in New York with an old +classmate and gone to the theatre.” + +“That was not the truth, was it, Mr. Phipps?” inquired the prosecutor +regretfully. + +“That was a falsehood,” said Mr. Phipps, his eyes on his locked hands. + +Mr. Farr waited a moment to permit this indubitable fact to sink in. +When he spoke again, his voice was brisker than it had been in some +time. “How did you recognize Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives, Mr. Phipps?” + +“They were standing in the circle of light cast by their headlights. I +could see them very distinctly.” + +“No, I mean where had you seen them before.” + +“Oh, I had seen them quite frequently before. Mrs. Ives I saw often +when she was Miss Thorne and I was tutoring at Orchards, and I had +seen her several times since as well. Indeed, I had been in her own +house on two occasions in regard to some welfare work that the school +was backing.” + +“You were aware then that Mrs. Ives was a very wealthy woman?” + +Mr. Phipps looked at him wonderingly. “Aware? I knew of course that——” + +“Your Honour, I object to that question as totally improper.” + +“Objection sustained,” said Judge Carver, eyeing the prosecutor with +some austerity. + +“And as to Mr. Bellamy?” inquired that gentleman blandly. + +“Mr. Bellamy was a director of our school board,” said Mr. Phipps. “I +was in the habit of seeing him almost weekly, so I naturally +recognized him.” + +“Oh, you knew Mr. Bellamy, too, did you?” Mr. Farr’s voice was +encouragement itself. + +“I knew him—not intimately, you understand, but well enough to admire +him as deeply as did all who came in contact with him.” + +“He was deeply admired by all the members of the board?” + +“Undoubtedly.” + +“It will do you no damage with the board, then, when they learn of +your testimony in this case?” + +“Your Honour——” + +“Please,” said Mr. Phipps quietly, “I should like to answer that. +Whether it would do me damage or not is slightly academic, as I have +already handed in my resignation as principal of the Eastern High +School. I do not intend to return to Rosemont; my wife, my children, +and I are leaving for Ohio to-morrow.” + +“You have resigned your position? When?” + +“Last night. My wife agreed with me that my usefulness here would +probably be seriously impaired after I had testified.” + +“You are a wealthy man, Mr. Phipps?” + +“On the contrary, I am a poor man.” + +“Yet you are able to resign your position and go West as a man of +independent means?” + +“Are you asking me whether I have been bribed, Mr. Farr?” asked Mr. +Phipps gravely. + +“I am asking you nothing of the kind. I am simply——” + +“Your Honour! Your Honour!” + +“Because if you are,” continued Mr. Phipps clearly over the imperious +thunder of the gavel, “I should like to ask you what sum you yourself +would consider sufficient to reimburse you for the loss of your +private happiness, your personal reputation, and your public career?” + +“I ask that that reply be stricken from the record, Your Honour!” + +The white savagery of Mr. Farr’s face was not an agreeable sight. + +“Both your question and the witness’s reply may be so stricken,” said +Judge Carver sternly. “They were equally improper. You may proceed, +Mr. Farr.” + +Mr. Farr, by a truly Herculean effort, managed to reduce both voice +and countenance to a semblance better suited to so ardent a seeker for +truth. “You wish us to believe then, Mr. Phipps, that on the night of +the nineteenth of June, for the first time in over ten years, you went +to the gardener’s cottage at Orchards at the precise moment that +enabled you to recognize Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy standing in +the circle of their automobile lights?” + +“That is exactly what I wish you to believe,” said Mr. Phipps +steadily. “It is the truth.” + +Mr. Farr bestowed on him a long look in which irony, skepticism, and +contemptuous pity were neatly blended. “No further questions,” he said +briefly. “Call Miss Dunne.” + +“Miss Sally Dunne!” + +Miss Sally Dunne came quickly, so tall, so brave, so young and pale in +her blue serge dress with its neat little white collar and cuffs, that +more than one person in the dark courtroom caught themselves wondering +with a catch at the heart how long it had been since she had coiled +those smooth brown braids over her ears and smoothed the hair ribbons +out for the last time. She was not pretty. She had a sad little +heart-shaped face and widely spaced hazel eyes, candid and trustful. +These she turned on Mr. Lambert, and steadied her lips, which were +trembling. + +“Miss Dunne, I just want you to tell us one or two things. You heard +Mr. Phipps’ testimony?” + +“Yes, sir.” A child’s voice, clear as water, troubled and innocent. + +“You were with him on the night of June nineteenth from eight until +one or thereabouts?” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“Was his testimony as to what happened accurate?” + +“Oh, yes, indeed, sir. Mr. Phipps,” said the little voice proudly, +“has a very wonderful memory.” + +“You were with him on his first visit to the cottage?” + +“I was with him every minute of the evening.” + +“You saw no car near the cottage?” + +“There wasn’t any car there,” said Miss Dunne. + +“You saw Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives on your second visit to the +cottage, some time after ten o’clock?” + +“Just when they came out,” said Miss Dunne conscientiously. “I didn’t +see their faces when they went in.” + +“Did you hear them speak?” + +“I heard Mr. Bellamy say, ‘Sue, no matter how innocent we are, we’ll +never get one person to believe that we aren’t guilty if they know +that we were in that room, much less twelve. I’ve got to get you +home.’” + +“Yes. Are you engaged to be married, Miss Dunne?” + +“I don’t know,” said Miss Dunne simply. “I was engaged, but my—my +fiancé didn’t want me to testify in this case. You see, he’s studying +for the ministry. I think perhaps that he doesn’t consider that he’s +engaged any longer.” + +“Were you yourself anxious to testify?” + +“I was anxious to do what Mr. Phipps thought was right for us to do,” +said Miss Dunne. “But I am afraid that I was not very brave about +wanting to testify.” + +“Were you in the habit of going on these—these picnic expeditions with +Mr. Phipps?” + +“Oh, no, sir. We had taken only two or three quite short little +walks—after school, you know. He was helping me with my English +literature because I wanted to be a writer. The party that night was a +farewell party.” + +“A farewell party?” + +“Yes. School had closed on Friday, and we—Mr. Phipps thought that +perhaps it would be better if we didn’t see each other any more. It +was my fault that we went to Orchards that night. It was all my +fault,” explained Miss Dunne carefully in her small, clear voice. + +“Your fault?” + +“Yes. You see, Mr. Phipps thought that I was very romantic indeed, and +that I was getting too fond of him, so that we had better stop seeing +each other. I am very romantic,” said Sally Dunne gravely, “and I was +getting too fond of him.” + +“How often have you seen Mr. Phipps since that evening, Miss Dunne?” + +“Twice; once on the Tuesday following the—the murder—only for about +five minutes in the park. I begged him not to say anything about our +having been there unless it was absolutely necessary. And again last +night when he said that it was necessary.” + +“Yes, exactly. Thank you, Miss Dunne; that will be all. +Cross-examine.” + +“It was not the state that is responsible for the pitiless publicity +to which this unfortunate young girl has been exposed,” said Mr. Farr, +looking so virtuous that one sought apprehensively for the halo. “And +it is not the state that proposes to prolong it. I ask no question.” + +Judge Carver said, in answer to the look of blank bewilderment in the +clear eyes, “That will be all. You may step down, Miss Dunne.” + + +The red-headed girl, who thought that nothing in the world could +surprise her any more, felt herself engulfed in amazement. + +“Well, but what did he let her go for?” + +“He let her go,” explained the reporter judicially, “because he’s the +wiliest old fox in Bellechester County. He knows perfectly well that +while he has a fair sporting chance of instilling the suspicion in the +twelve essential heads that Mr. Phipps is a libertine and a bribe +taker and a perjurer, he hasn’t the chance of the proverbial snowball +to make them believe that Sally Dunne could speak anything but the +truth to save her life or her soul. That child could make the tales of +Munchausen sound like the eternal verities. The quicker he can get her +off the stand, the more chance he has of saving his case.” + +“Save it? How can he save it?” + +“Well, that’s probably what he’d like to know. As the prosecutor is +supposed to be a seeker after truth, rather than a blood-hound after +blood, he has rather a tough row to hoe. And here’s where he starts +hoeing it.” + +“The state has no comment to make on the testimony that you have just +heard,” Mr. Farr was saying to the twelve jurors with an expression of +truly exalted detachment, “other than to ask you to remember that, +after all, these two last witnesses are no more than human beings, +subject to the errors, the frailties, and the weaknesses of other +human beings. If you will bear that in mind in weighing their +evidence, I do not feel that it will be necessary to add one other +word.” + +Judge Carver eyed him thoughtfully for a moment over the glasses that +he had adjusted to his fine nose. Then, with a perfunctory rap of his +gavel, he turned to the papers in his hand. + +“Gentlemen of the jury, the long and anxious inquiry in which we have +been engaged is drawing to a close, and it now becomes my duty to +address you. It has been, however painful, of a most absorbing +interest, and it has undoubtedly engaged the closest attention of +every one of you. You will not regret the strain that that attention +has placed upon you when it shortly becomes your task to weigh the +evidence that has been put before you. + +“At the very outset of my charge I desire to make several things quite +clear. You and you alone are the sole judges of fact. Any comment that +the Court may make as to the weight or value of any features of the +evidence is merely his way of suggestion, and is in no possible way +binding on the jury. Nor do statements made by counsel as to the +innocence or guilt of the defendants, or as to any other conclusions +or inferences drawn by them, prove anything whatever or have any +effect as evidence. + +“It is not necessary for any person accused in a court in this county +to prove that he is not guilty. It devolves on the state to prove that +he is. If you have a reasonable doubt as to whether the state has +proved his guilt, it is your duty to return a verdict of not guilty. +That is the law of the land. + +“Now, having a reasonable doubt does not mean that by some far-fetched +and fantastic hypothesis you can arrive at the conclusion of not +guilty because any other conclusion is painful and distasteful and +abhorrent to you. There is hardly anything that an ingenious mind +cannot bring itself to doubt, granted sufficient industry and +application. A reasonable doubt is not one that you would conjure up +in the middle of a dark, sleepless, and troubled night, but one that +would lead you to say naturally when you went about your business in +clear daylight, ‘Well, I can’t quite make up my mind about the real +facts behind that proposition.’ Not beyond any possible doubt—beyond a +reasonable doubt—bear that in mind. + +“To convict either of the defendants under this indictment, the state +must prove to your satisfaction beyond reasonable doubt: + +“First, that Madeleine Bellamy is dead and was murdered. + +“Second, that this murder took place in Bellechester County. + +“And third, that such defendant either committed that murder by +actually perpetrating the killing or by participating therein as a +principal. + +“That Madeleine Bellamy is dead is perfectly clear. That she was +murdered has not been controverted by either the state or the defense. +That the murder took place in Bellechester County is not in dispute. +The only actual problem that confronts you is the third one: Did Mrs. +Ives and Mr. Bellamy participate in the murder of this unfortunate +girl? + +“The state tells you that they did, and in support of that statement +they advance the following facts: + +“They claim that on Saturday the nineteenth of June, 1926, at about +five o’clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Ives received information from Mr. +Elliot Farwell as to relations between Mr. Ives and Mrs. Bellamy that +affected her so violently and painfully that she thereupon——” + + +“I can’t stand hearing it all over again,” remarked the red-headed +girl in a small ominous whisper. “I can’t stand it, I tell you! If he +starts telling us again that Sue Ives went home and called up Stephen +Bellamy, I’ll stand up and scream so that they’ll hear me in +Philadelphia. I’ll——” + +“Look here, you’d better get out of here,” said the reporter in tones +of unfeigned alarm. “Tell you what you do. You crawl out very quietly +to that side door where the fat officer with the sandy moustache is +standing. He’s a good guy, and you tell him that I told you that he’d +let you out before you fainted all over the place. You can sit on the +stairs leading to the third floor; I’ll get word to you when he’s +through with the evidence, and you can crawl back the same way.” + +“All right,” said the red-headed girl feebly. + +The reporter glanced cautiously about. “It’ll help if you can go both +ways on four paws; the judge doesn’t like to think that he’s boring +any member of the press, and if he sees one of us escaping, he’s +liable to call out the machine guns. Take long, deep breaths and +pretend that it’s day after tomorrow.” + +The red-headed girl gave him a look of dazed scorn and moved toward +the left-hand door at a gait that came as close to being on four paws +as was compatible with the dignity of the press. The fat officer gave +one alarmed look at her small, wan face and hastily opened the door. +She crawled through it, discovered the stairs, mounted them obediently +and sank somewhat precipitately to rest on the sixth one from the top. + +Down below, she could hear the mob outside of the great centre doors, +shuffling and grunting and yapping—— Ugh! Ugh! She shuddered and +propped up her elbows on her knees and her head on her hands, and +closed her eyes and closed her ears and breathed deeply and fervently. + +“If ever I go to a murder trial again—— What happens to you when you +don’t sleep for a week? . . . If ever—I—go——” + +Someone was saying, “Hey!” It was a small, freckled boy in a +messenger’s cap, and he had evidently been saying it for some time, as +his voice had a distinctly crescendo quality. He extended one of the +familiar telegraph blanks and vanished. The red-headed girl read it +solemnly, trying to look very wide awake and intelligent, as is the +wont of those abruptly wakened. + +The telegram said: “Come home. All is forgiven, and he’s through with +the evidence. It’s going to the jury in a split second. Hurry!” + +She hurried. Quite suddenly she felt extraordinarily wide awake and +amazingly alert and frantically excited. She was a reporter—she was at +a murder trial—they were going to consider the verdict. She flew down +the white marble stairs and around the first corner and through the +crack of the door proffered by the startled guard. There were wings at +her heels and vine leaves in her hair. She felt like a giant +refreshed—that was it, a giant. . . . + +The reporter eyed her with his mouth open. “Well, for heaven’s sake, +what’s happened to you?” + +“Everything’s all right, isn’t it?” she demanded feverishly. “They +won’t be out long, will they? There’s nothing——” A familiar voice fell +ominously on her ears and she jerked incredulous eyes toward the +throne of justice. “Oh, he’s still talking! You said he was +through—you did! You said——” + +“I said through with the evidence, and so he is. This is just a back +fire. If you’ll keep quiet a minute you’ll see.” + + +“I wish simply, therefore, to remind you,” the weary voice was saying, +“that however unusual, arresting and dramatic the circumstances +surrounding the testimony of these last two witnesses may have been, +you should approach this evidence in precisely the same spirit that +you approach all the other evidence that has been placed before you. +It should be submitted to exactly the same tests of credibility that +you apply to every word that has been uttered before you—no more and +no less. + +“One more word and I have done. The degrees of murder I have defined +for you. You will govern your verdict accordingly. The sentence is not +your concern; that lies with the Court. It is your duty, and your sole +duty, to decide whether Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy are either or +both of them guilty of the murder of Madeleine Bellamy. I am convinced +that you will perform that duty faithfully. Gentlemen, you may +consider your verdict.” + +Slowly and stiffly the twelve men rose to their feet and stood staring +about them uncertainly, as though loath to be about their business. + +“If you desire further instruction as to any point that is not quite +clear to you,” said Judge Carver gravely, “I may be reached in my room +here. Any of the exhibits that you desire to see will be put at your +disposal. You may retire, gentlemen.” + +They shuffled solemnly out through the little door to the right of the +witness, the small, beady-eyed bailiff with the mutton-chop whiskers +and the anxious frown trotting close at their heels. The door closed +behind them with a gentle, ominous finality, and someone in the +courtroom sighed—loudly, uncontrollably—a prophecy of the coming +intolerable suspense. + +The red-headed girl wrung her hands together in a despairing effort to +warm them. Twelve men—twelve ordinary, everyday men, whose faces +looked heavy and stupid with strain and fatigue . . . She pressed her +hands together harder and turned a pale face toward the other door. + +Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy had just reached it; they lingered +there for a moment to smile gravely and reassuringly at the hovering +Lambert, and then were gone, as quietly as though they were about to +walk down the steps to waiting cars instead of to a black hell of +uncertainty and suspense. + +Those in the courtroom still sat breathlessly silent, held in check by +Judge Carver’s stern eye. After a moment he, too, rose; for a moment, +it seemed that all the room was filled with the rustle of his black +silk robes, and then he, too, was gone, with decorum following hard on +his heels. + +In less than thirty seconds, the quiet, orderly room was transformed +into something rather less sedate than the careless excitement of a +Saturday-afternoon crowd at a ball park—psychologically they were +reduced to shirt sleeves and straw hats tilted well back on their +heads. The red-headed girl stared at them with round, appalled eyes. + +Just behind her they were forming a pool. Someone with a squeaky voice +was betting that they would be back in twenty minutes; someone with an +Oxford accent was betting that they’d take two hours; a girl’s +pleasant tones offered five to one that it would be a hung jury. Large +red apples were materializing, the smoke of a hundred cigarettes +filled the air, and rumour’s voice was loud in the land: + +“Listen, did you hear about Melanie Cordier? Someone telephoned that +she’d collapsed at the inn in Rosemont and confessed that Platz had +done it, and about one o’clock this morning every taxicab in Redfield +was skidding around corners to get there first. And she hadn’t been +there since last Friday, let alone collapsed!” + +“Well, you wouldn’t get me out of my bed at one in the morning to hear +Cal Coolidge say he’d done it.” + +“Did you hear the row that Irish landlady was setting up about a state +witness taking her seat? Oh, boy, what an eye that lady’s got! It sure +would tame a wildcat!” + +“Anyone want to bet ten to one that they’ll be out all night?” + +The voice of an officer of the court said loudly and authoritatively, +“No smoking in here! No smoking, please!” + +There was a temporary lull, and a perfunctory and irritable tapping of +cigarettes against chair arms. The clock over the courtroom door said +four. + +“Have some chocolate?” inquired the reporter solicitously. The +red-headed girl shuddered. “Well, but, my good child, you haven’t had +a mouthful of lunch, and if you aren’t careful you won’t have a +mouthful of dinner either. Lord knows how long that crew will be in +there.” + +“How long?” inquired the red-headed girl fiercely. “Why, for heaven’s +sake, should they be long? Why, for heaven’s sake, can’t they come out +of there now and say, ‘Not guilty’?” + +“Well, there’s a good old-fashioned custom that they’re supposed to +weigh the evidence; they may be celebrating that.” + +“What have they to weigh? They heard Mr. Phipps, didn’t they?” + +“They did indeed. And what they may well spend the next twenty-four +hours debating is whether they consider Mr. Phipps a long-suffering +martyr or a well-paid liar.” + +“Oh, go away—go away! I can’t bear you!” + +“You can’t bear me?” inquired the reporter incredulously. “Me?” + +“No—yes—never mind. Go away; you say perfectly horrible things.” + +“Not as horrible as you do,” said the reporter. “Can’t bear me, +indeed! I didn’t say that I thought that Phipps was a liar. As a +matter of fact, I thought he was as nice a guy as I ever saw in my +life, poor devil, even if he did read the _Idylls of the King_ +aloud. . . . Can’t bear me!” + +“I can’t bear anything,” said the red-headed girl despairingly. “Go +away!” + +After he had gone, she had a sudden overwhelming impulse to +dash after him and beg him to take her with him, anywhere he +went—everywhere—always. She was still contemplating the impulse with +horrified amazement when the girl from the Louisville paper who sat +three seats down from her leaned forward. She was a nice, cynical, +sensible-looking girl, but for the moment she was a little pale. + +“There’s not a possibility that they could return a verdict of guilty, +is there?” she inquired in a carefully detached voice. + +“Oh, juries!” said the red-headed girl drearily. “They can do +anything. They’re just plain, average, everyday, walking-around +people, and average, everyday people can do anything in the world. +That’s why we have murders and murder trials.” + +The girl from the Louisville paper stood up abruptly. “I think I’ll +get a little air,” she said, and added in a somewhat apologetic voice, +“It’s my first murder trial.” + +“It’s my last,” said the red-headed girl grimly. + +The officer of the court had disappeared, and all about her there were +rising once more the little blue coils of smoke—incense on the altars +of relaxation. Why didn’t he come back. . . . The clock over the +courtroom door said five. + +On the courtroom floor there was a mounting tide of newspapers, +telegraph blanks, leaves from notebooks and ruled pads—many nervous +hands had made light work, tearing, crumpling, and crushing their +destructive way through the implements of their trade. There was an +empty pop bottle just by the rail, apple cores and banana skins were +everywhere, clouds of smoke, fragments of buns, a high, nervous murmur +of voices; a picnic ground on the fifth of July would have presented a +more appetizing appearance. Over all was a steady roar of voices, and +one higher than the rest, lamenting: “Over two hours—that’s a hung +jury as sure as shooting! I might just as well kiss that ten dollars +good-bye here and now. Got a light, Larry?” + +The door to the left of the witness box opened abruptly, and for a +moment Judge Carver stood framed in it, tall and stern in his black +robes. Under his accusing eye, apples and cigarettes were suddenly as +unobtrusive as the skin on a chameleon, and voices fell to silence. He +stood staring at them fixedly for a moment and then withdrew as +abruptly as he had come. While you could have counted ten, silence +hung heavy; then once more the smoke and the voices rose and +fell. . . . The clock over the courtroom door said six. + +The red-headed girl moved an aimless pencil across an empty pad +with unsteady fingers. There were quite a lot of empty seats. +What were those twelve men doing now? Weighing the evidence? +Well, but how did you weigh evidence? What was important and +what wasn’t? . . . And suddenly she was back in the only courtroom +that she could remember clearly—the one in Alice in Wonderland, +and the King was saying proudly, “Well, that’s very important.” +“Unimportant, Your Majesty means.” And she could hear the poor +little King trying it over to himself to see which sounded +the best. “Important—unimportant—important——” There was the +lamp—and the date on the letters—and the note that nobody had +found—unimportant—important. . . . There was a juryman called Bill the +Lizard. She remembered that he had dipped his tail in ink and had +written down all the hours and dates in the case on his slate, +industriously adding them up and reducing the grand total to pounds, +shillings, and pence. Perhaps that was the safest way, after all. + +June 19, 1926, and May 8, 1916. . . . A boy came running down the +aisle with a basketful of sandwiches and chewing gum; there was +another one with pink editions of the evening papers; it was exactly +like a ball game or a circus. . . . Where was he? Wasn’t he coming +back at all? . . . Outside the snow was falling; you could see it +white against the black windowpanes, and all the lights in the +courtroom were blazing. . . . Well, but where was he? + +A voice from somewhere just behind her said ominously, “Can’t bear me, +can’t she? I’ll learn her!” + +The red-headed girl screwed around in her seat. He was leaning over +the back of the chair next to her with a curious expression on his not +unagreeable countenance. + +The red-headed girl said in a small, abject voice that shocked her +profoundly, “Don’t go away—don’t go away again.” + +The reporter, looking startlingly pale under the glaring lights, +remarked casually, “I don’t believe that I’ll marry you after all.” + +The red-headed girl could feel herself go first very white and then +very red and then very white again. She could hear her heart pounding +just behind her ears. In a voice even more casual than the reporter’s +she inquired, “After all what?” + +“After all your nonsense,” said the reporter severely. + +The red-headed girl said in a voice so small and abject that it was +practically inaudible, “Please do!” + +“What are we doing in here?” inquired the reporter in a loud clear +voice. “What are we doing in a courtroom at a murder trial, with two +hundred and fifty-four people watching us? Where’s a beach? Where’s an +apple orchard? Where’s a moonlit garden with a nightingale? You get up +and put your things on and come out of this place.” + +The red-headed girl rose docilely to her feet. After all, what were +they doing there? What was a murder trial or verdict or a newspaper +story compared to—— She halted, riveted with amazement. + +Suddenly, mysteriously, incredibly, the courtroom was all in motion. +No one had crossed a threshold, no one had raised a voice; but as +surely as though they had been tossed out of their seats by some +gigantic hand, the crowd was in flight. One stampede toward the door +from the occupants of the seats, another stampede from the occupants +of the seats toward the door, a hundred voices calling, regardless of +law and order. + +“Keep that ’phone line open!” + +“They’re coming!” + +“Dorothy! Dorothy!” + +“Have Stan take the board!” + +“Where’s Larry? Larry!” + +“Get Red—get Red, for God’s sake!” + +“That’s my chair—snap out of it, will you?” + +“Watch for that flash—Bill’s going to signal.” + +“Dorothy!” + +“Get to that door!” + +And silence as sudden as the tumult. Through the left-hand door were +coming two quiet, familiar figures, and through the right-hand door +one robed in black. The clock over the courthouse door stood at a +quarter to seven. + +“Is there an officer at that door?” Judge Carver’s voice was harsh +with anger. “Officer, take that door. No one out of it or in it until +the verdict has been delivered.” + +Despairing eyes exchanged frantic glances. Well, but what about the +last edition? They’re holding the presses until seven. What about the +last edition? Hurry, hurry! + +But the ambassador of the majestic law was quite unhurried. “I have a +few words to say to the occupants of this courtroom. If at the +conclusion of the verdict there is a demonstration of any kind +whatsoever, the offenders will be brought before me and promptly dealt +with as being in contempt of court. Officers, hold the doors.” + +And through another door—the little one behind the seat of +justice—twelve tired men were filing, gaunt, solemn eyed, awkward—the +farmers, merchants, and salesmen who held in their awkward hands the +terrible power of life and death. The red-headed girl clutched the +solid, tweed-covered arm beside her as though she were drowning. + +There they stood in a neat semicircle under the merciless glare of the +lights, their upturned faces white and spent. + +“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed on a verdict?” + +A deep-voiced chorus answered solemnly, “We have.” + +“Prisoner, look upon the jury. Jury, look upon the prisoners.” + +Unflinching and inscrutable, the white faces obeyed the grave voice. + +“Foreman, how do you find as to Stephen Bellamy, guilty or not +guilty?” + +“Not guilty.” + +A tremor went through the court and was stilled. + +“How do you find as to Susan Ives?” + +“Not guilty.” + +For a moment no one moved, no one stirred, no one breathed. And then, +abruptly, the members of the fourth estate forgot the majesty of law +and remembered the majesty of the press. Three minutes to seven—three +minutes to make the last edition! The mad rush for the doors was +stoutly halted by the zealous guardians, who clung devoutly to their +posts, and the air was rent with stentorian shouts: “Sit down there!” +“Keep quiet!” “Order! Order!” “Take your hands off of me!”—and the +thunder of Judge Carver’s gavel. + +And caught once more between the thunder of the press and the law, two +stood oblivious of it. Stephen Bellamy’s haunted face was turned +steadfastly toward the little door beyond which lay freedom, but Susan +Ives had turned away from it. Her eyes were on a black head bent low +in the corner by the window, and at the look in them, so fearless, so +valiant, and so eager, the red-headed girl found suddenly that she was +weeping, shamelessly and desperately, into something that smelt of +tweed—and tobacco—and heaven. . . . The clock over the door said +seven. The Bellamy trial was over. + + +The judge came into the little room that served him as office in the +courthouse with a step lighter than had crossed its threshold for many +days. It was a good room; the dark panelling went straight up to the +ceiling; there were two wide windows and two deep chairs and a great +shining desk piled high with books and papers. Against the walls rose +row upon row of warm, pleasant-coloured books, and over the door hung +a great engraving of Justice in her flowing robes of white, smiling +gravely down at the bandage in her hands that man has seen fit to +place over her eyes. Across the room from her, between the two +windows, his robes flowing black, sat John Marshall, that great +gentleman, his dark eyes eternally fixed on hers, as though they +shared some secret understanding. + +Judge Carver looked from one to the other a little anxiously as he +came in, and they smiled back at him reassuringly. For thirty years +the three of them had been old friends. + +He crossed to the desk with a suddenly quickened step. The lamps were +lighted, and reflected in its top as in a mirror he could see the +short, stubby, nut-coloured pipe, the huge brass bowl into which a +giant might have spilled his ashes, the capacious box of matches +yawning agreeably in his tired face. The black robes were heavy on his +shoulders, and he lifted an impatient hand to them, when he paused, +arrested by the sight of the central stack of papers. + +“Gentlemen of the jury, the long and anxious inquiry in which we have +been engaged——” + +Now just what was it that he’d said to them about a principal and an +accessory before the fact being one and the same in a murder case? Of +course, as a practical matter, that was quite accurate. Still—He ran +through the papers with skilled fingers—there! “An accessory after the +fact is one who——” + +There was a knock on the door and he lifted an irritated voice: “Come +in!” + +The door opened cautiously, and under the smiling Justice in her +flowing robes a little boy was standing, freckle-faced, blue-eyed, +black-haired, in the rusty green of the messenger’s uniform. Behind +him the judge could see the worried face of old Martin, the clerk of +the court. + +“I couldn’t do anything with him at all, Your Honour. I told him you +were busy, and I told him you were engaged, and I told him you’d given +positive orders not to be disturbed, and all he’d say was, ‘I swore +I’d give it into his hands, and into his hands it goes, if I stay in +this place until the moon goes down and the sun comes up.’” + +“And that’s what I promised,” said the small creature at the door in a +squeak of terrified obstinacy. “And that’s what I’ll do. No matter +what——” + +“All right, all right, put it down there and be off.” The judge’s +voice was not too long-suffering. + +“Into his hands is what I said, and into his hands——” + +The judge stretched out one fine lean hand with a smile that warmed +his cold face like a fire. The other hand went to his pocket. “Here, +if you keep on being an honourable nuisance, you may have a career +ahead of you. Good-night, Martin; show the young gentleman to the +door. If any one else disturbs me to-night, he’s fired.” + +“Oh, by all means, Your Honour. Good-night, Your Honour.” + +The door closed reverently, and His Honour stood staring absently down +at the letter in his hand, the smile still in his eyes. A fat, a +plethoric, an apoplectic letter; three red seals on the flap of the +envelope flaunted themselves at him importantly. He turned it over +carelessly. The clear, delicate, vigorous writing greeted him like a +challenge: + + “Judge Carver. + “To be delivered to him personally without fail.” + +Very impressive! He tore open the sealed flap with irreverent fingers +and shook the contents out on to the desk. Good Lord, it was a +three-volume novel! Page after page of that fine writing, precise and +accurate as print. He lifted it curiously, and something fluttered out +and lay staring up at him from the table. A piece of blue paper, +flimsy, creased and soiled, the round childish writing sprawled +recklessly across its battered surface: + + 10 A. M., June 19th. + + Pat, I’ll catch either the eight or eight-thirty bus—— + +Very slowly, very carefully, he picked it up, the smile dying in his +incredulous eyes. + + Pat, I’ll catch either the eight or eight-thirty bus. That will get + me to the cottage before nine, at the latest. I’ll wait there until + half past. You can make any excuse that you want to Sue, but get + there—and be sure that you bring what you promised. I think you + realize as well as I do that there’s no use talking any more. We’re + a long way beyond words, and from now on we’ll confine ourselves to + deeds. It’s absurd to think that Steve will suspect anything. I can + fool him absolutely, and once we settle the details to-night, we can + get off any moment that we decide on. California! Oh, Pat, I can’t + wait! And when you realize how happy we’re going to be, you won’t + have any regrets either. You always did say that you wanted me to be + happy—remember? + + Mimi. + +Judge Carver pushed the deep chair closer to the lamp and sat down in +it heavily, pulling the closely written pages toward him. He looked +old and tired. + + “Midnight. + + “My dear Judge Carver: + + “I am fully aware of the fact that I am doing a cowardly thing in + writing you this letter. It is simply an attempt on my part to shift + my own burden to another’s shoulders, and my shoulders should surely + be sufficiently used to burdens by this time. But this one is of so + strange, awkward, and terrible a shape that I must get rid of it at + any cost to my pride or sense of fair play—or to your peace of mind. + If the verdict to-morrow is guilty, of course, I’ll not send the + letter, but simply turn the facts over to the prosecutor. I am + spending to-night writing you this in case it is not guilty. + + “It was I who killed Madeleine Bellamy. It seems simply incredible + to me that everyone should not have guessed it long before now. + + “Kathleen Page, Melanie Cordier, Laura Roberts, Patrick, Sue, I + myself—we told you so over and over again. That singularly obnoxious + and alert Mr. Farr—is it possible that he has never suspected—not + even when I explained to him that at ten o’clock I was in the flower + room, washing off my hands? And yet a few minutes later he was + asking me if there wasn’t a sink in the pantry where my poor Sue + might have cleansed her own hands of Mimi Bellamy’s blood—and every + face in the court was sick with the horror of that thought. + + “We told you everything, and no one even listened. + + “Who knew about the path across the meadow to the summerhouse? I, + not Sue. Who could see the study window clearly from the rose + garden? I, not Sue. Who had that hour and a half between 8:30 and + ten absolutely alone and unobserved? I, not Sue. Who had every + motive that was ascribed to Sue multiplied ten times over? I, who + had known poverty beside which Sue’s years in New York were a gay + adventure; who had not only a child to fight for, but that child’s + children; who, after a lifetime of grim nightmare, had found + paradise; and who saw coming to thrust me out from that paradise not + an angel with a flaming sword, but a little empty-headed, + empty-hearted chit, cheap, mercenary, and implacable, as only the + empty-headed can be. + + “I know, Judge Carver, that the burden that I am trying to shift to + your shoulders should be heaviest of all with the weight of remorse; + and there is in it, I can swear to you, enough remorse to bow + stronger shoulders than either yours or mine—but none, none for the + death of Mimi Bellamy. + + “Remorse for these past weeks has eaten me to the bone—for the shame + and terror and peril that I have brought to my children, for the + sorrow and menace that I have brought to that gentle soul, Stephen + Bellamy—even for the death of poor Elliot Farwell; that was my + doing, too, I think. I do not shirk it. + + “I am rather an old-fashioned person. I believe in hell, and I + believe that I shall probably go there because I killed Mimi Bellamy + and because I’m not sorry for it; but the hell that I’ve been living + through every day and every night since she died is not one shadow + darker because it was I who gave her the little push that sped her + from one world to another. + + “When that unpleasant Mr. Farr was invoking the vengeance of heaven + and earth on the fiend who had stopped forever the silver music of + the dead girl’s laughter, I remembered that the last time that she + laughed it had been at an old woman on her knees begging for the + happiness and safety of two babies—and the world did not seem to me + to have lost much when that laughter ceased. That is frightful, + isn’t it? But that is true. + + “I’ll try to go back so that you can understand exactly what + happened; then you can tell better, perhaps, what I should do and + what you should do with me. First of all, I must go very far back, + indeed—back thirty years, to a manufacturing town in northern New + York. + + “Thirty-one years ago last June, my husband left me with the + nineteen-year-old daughter of my Norwegian landlady. You couldn’t + exactly blame him, of course. Trudie was as pretty as the girl on + the cover of the most expensive candy box you ever saw, and as + unscrupulous as Messalina—and I wasn’t either. + + “I was much too busy being sick and miserable and cross and sorry + for myself to be anything else at all, so he walked off with Trudie + and nineteen dollars and fifty cents out of the teapot and left me + with a six-weeks-old baby and a gold wedding ring that wasn’t + exactly gold. And my landlady wouldn’t give me even one day’s grace + rent free, because she was naturally a little put out by her + daughter’s unceremonious departure, and quite frankly held me to + blame for it, as she said a girl who couldn’t hold her own man + wasn’t likely worth her board and keep. + + “So, just like the lady in the bad melodramas, I wrapped my baby up + in a shawl and started out to find work at the factory. Of course I + didn’t find it. It was a slack season at the factories, and I looked + like a sick little scarecrow, and I hadn’t even money for car fare. + I spent the first evening of my career as a breadwinner begging for + pennies on the more prominent street corners. It’s one way to get + bread. + + “In the next twenty years I tried a great many other ways of getting + it, including, on two occasions, stealing it. But that was only the + first year; after that we always had bread, though often there + wasn’t enough of it, and generally it was stale, and frequently + there wasn’t anything to put on it. + + “When people talk about the fear of poverty, I wonder whether they + have the remotest idea of what they’re talking about. I wasn’t rich + when I married Dan; I was the daughter of a not oversuccessful + lawyer, and I thought that we were quite poor, because often we went + through periods where pot roast instead of chicken played a + prominent part in the family diet, and my best dress had to be of + tarlatan instead of taffeta, and I possessed only two pairs of kid + gloves that reached to my elbow, and one that reached to my + shoulder. + + “I was very, very sorry for myself during those periods, and used to + go around with faintly pink eyes and a strong sense of martyrdom. I + wasn’t at all a noble character. I liked going to cotillions at + night and staying in bed in the morning, and wringing terrified + proposals from callow young men who were completely undone by the + combination of moonlight and mandolin playing. Besides playing the + mandolin, I could make two kinds of candy and feather-stitch quite + well and dance the lancers better than anyone in town—and I knew + most of Lucile by heart. Thus lavishly equipped for the exigencies + of holy matrimony, I proceeded to elope with Mr. Daniel Ives. + + “I won’t bother you much with Dan. He was the leading man in a stock + company that came to our town, and three weeks after he saw me + sitting worshipping in the front row we decided that life without + each other would be an empty farce and shook the dust of that town + from our heels forever. It was very, very romantic, indeed, for the + first six days—and after that it wasn’t so romantic. + + “Because I, who could feather-stitch so nicely, was a bad cook and a + bad manager and a bad housewife and a bad sport—a bad wife, in + short. I wasn’t precisely happy, and I thought that it was perfectly + safe to be all those things, because it simply never entered my head + that one human being could get so tired of another human being that + he could quietly walk out and leave her to starve to death. And I + was as wrong about that, as I’d been about everything else. + + “I’m telling you all this not to excuse myself, but simply to + explain, so that you will understand a little, perhaps, what sent my + feet hurrying across the meadow path, what brought them back to the + flower room at ten o’clock that night. I think that two people went + to meet Madeleine Bellamy in the cottage that night—a nice, + well-behaved little white-headed lady and the wilful, spoiled, + terrified girl that the nice old lady thought that she had killed + thirty years ago. It’s only fair to you that I should explain that, + because of what I’m going to ask you to decide. And it is only fair + to myself that I should say this. + + “For twenty years I was too cold, too hot, too tired and sick and + faint ever to be really comfortable for one moment. And I won’t + pretend that I looked forward with equanimity to surrendering one + single comfort or luxury that had finally come to make life + beautiful and gracious. But that wasn’t why I killed Madeleine + Bellamy. I ask you to believe that. + + “The real terror of poverty isn’t that we ourselves suffer. It is + that we are absolutely and utterly powerless to lift one finger to + protect and defend those who are dearest to us in the world. Judge + Carver, when Pat was sick when he was a baby I didn’t have enough + money to get a doctor for him; I didn’t have enough money to get + medicine. When I went to work I had to leave him with people who + were vile and filthy and debased in body and soul, because they were + the only people that I could afford to leave him with. + + “Once when I came home I couldn’t wake him up, and the woman who was + with him was terrified into telling me that he’d been crying so + dreadfully that she’d given him some stuff that a Hungarian woman on + the next floor said was fine for crying babies. I carried him and + the bottle with the stuff in it ten blocks to a drug store—and they + told me that it had opium in it. She’d given him half the bottle—to + my Pat. And another time the woman with him got drunk and—— But I + can’t talk about that, not even to make you understand. He never had + any toys in his life but some tin cans and empty spools and pieces + of string. He never had anything but me. + + “And I swore to myself that as long as he had me he should have + everything. I would be beauty to him, and peace and gentleness and + graciousness and gaiety and strength. I wasn’t beautiful or peaceful + or gentle or gracious or gay or strong, but I made myself all those + things for him. That isn’t vanity—that’s the truth. I swore that he + should never see me shed one tear, that he should never hear me lift + my voice in anger, that he should never see me tremble before + anything that fate should hold in store for either of us. He never + did—no, truly, he never did. That was all that I could give him, but + I did give him that. + + “It took me seventeen years to save up enough railway fare to get + out of that town. Then I came to Rosemont. A nice woman that I did + some sewing for in the town had a sister in Rosemont. She told me + that it was a lovely place and that she thought that there was a + good opening there for some work, and that her sister was looking + for boarders. So I took the few dollars that I’d saved and went, and + you know the rest. + + “Of course there are some things that you don’t know—you don’t know + how brave and gay and gentle Pat has always been to me; you don’t + know how happy we all were in the flat in New York, after he married + Sue and the babies came. Sue helped me with the housekeeping, and + Sue did some secretarial work at the university, and Pat did + anything that turned up, and did it splendidly. We always had plenty + to eat, and it was really clean and sunny, and we were all perfectly + healthy and happy. Only, Sue never did talk about it much, because + she is a very reserved child, in any case, and in this case she was + afraid that it might seem a reflection on the Thornes that she had + to live in a little walk-up flat in the Bronx, with no servants and + pretty plain living. + + “And Mr. Lambert was nervous about bringing out anything about it in + direct examination for fear that in cross-examination Mr. Farr would + twist things around to make it look as though Sue had undergone the + tortures of the damned. Of course, we didn’t have much, but we had + enough to make it seem a luxurious and care-free existence in + comparison to the one that Pat and I had lived for over fifteen + years. + + “Those things you don’t know—and one other. You don’t know Polly and + Pete, do you, Judge Carver? + + “They are very wonderful children. I suppose that every grandmother + thinks that her grandchildren are rather wonderful; but I don’t just + think it about them; they are. Anyone would tell you that—anyone who + had ever seen them. They’re the bravest, happiest, strongest little + things. You could be with them for weeks and never once hear them + cry. Of course, once in a very long while—if you have to scold them, + for instance—because Pete is quite sensitive; but then you almost + never have to scold them, and when Pete broke his leg last winter + and Dr. Chilton set it he said that he had never seen such courage + in a child. And when Polly was only two years old, she walked + straight out into the ocean up to her chin, and she’d have gone + farther still if her father hadn’t caught her up. She rides a pony + better than any seven-year-old child in Rosemont, too, and she isn’t + five yet—not until January—and the only time that she ever fell off + the pony she never even whimpered—not once. + + “They are very beautiful children too. Pete is quite fair and Polly + is very dark, but they both have blue eyes and very dark eyelashes. + They are so brown, too, and tall. It doesn’t seem possible that + either of them could ever be sick or unhappy; but still, you have to + be careful. Polly has been threatened twice with mastoiditis, and + Pete has to have his leg massaged three times a week, because he + still limps a little. + + “That’s why I killed Madeleine Bellamy. + + “The first time I realized that there was anything between her and + Pat was almost a month before the murder, some time early in May, I + think. Sue had been having quite a dinner party, and I’d slipped out + to the garden as usual as soon as I could get away. I decided to + gather some lilacs, and I came back to the house to get the scissors + from the flower room. As I passed the study I saw Pat and Mimi + silhouetted against the study window; she was bending over, + pretending to look at the ship he was making, but she wasn’t looking + at it—she was looking at Pat. + + “I’d always thought that she was a scatterbrained little goose, and + I had never liked her particularly; even in the old days in the + village I used to worry about her sometimes. She used too much + perfume and too much pink powder, and she had an empty little voice + and a horrid, excited little laugh. But I thought that she was + good-natured and harmless enough, when I thought about her at all, + and I was about to pass on, when she said something that riveted me + in my footsteps. + + “She said, ‘Pat, listen, did you get my note?’ He said, ‘Yes.’ She + asked, ‘Are you coming?’ And he said, ‘I don’t know. I’m not sure + that I can make it.’ She said, ‘Of course you can make it. We can’t + talk here. It doesn’t take ten minutes to get to the cottage. You’ve + got to make it.’ He said, ‘All right, I’ll be there. Look out; + someone’s coming.’ They both of them turned around, and I could hear + him calling to someone in the hall to come in and look at the ship. + + “I stood there, leaning my head against the side of the house and + feeling icy cold and deathly—deathly sick. It was as though I had + heard Dan calling to me across thirty years. + + “From that moment until this one I have never known one happy hour, + one happy moment, one happy second. I spent my life spying on him—on + my Pat—trying to discover how far he had gone, how far he was + prepared to go. I never caught them together again, in spite of the + fact that I fairly haunted the terrace under the study window, + thinking that some afternoon or evening they might return. They + never did. Mimi didn’t come very often to the house, as a matter of + fact. + + “But on the evening of the nineteenth of June, at a little after + half-past six, someone did come to the study window, who gave me the + clew that I had been seeking so long. It was Melanie Cordier, of + course. I was just coming back from the garden, where I had been + tying up some climbing roses, when I saw her there by the corner + near the bookcase. She had a book in her hands—quite a large, thick + book in a light tan cover, and she was looking back over her + shoulder with a queer, furtive look while she put something in it. + She shoved it back onto the shelf and was starting toward the hall, + when she drew back suddenly and stood very quiet. I thought: ‘There + is someone in the hall. When Melanie goes out it will mean that the + coast is clear.’ + + “It wasn’t more than a minute later that she left, and I started + around to the front of the house to get to the study and see what + she had put in that book. I was hurrying so that I almost ran into + Elliot Farwell, who was coming down the front steps and not looking + any more where he was going than if he had been stone blind. He + said, ‘Beg pardon’ and brushed by me without even lowering his eyes + to see who it was, and I went on across the hall into the study, + thinking that never in my life had I seen a man look so wretchedly + and recklessly unhappy. + + “No one was in the hall; they were all in the living room, and I + could hear them all laughing and talking—and I decided that if I + were to find what Melanie had put in the book I’d better do it + quickly, as the party might break up at any minute. I had noticed + just where the book was—on the third shelf close to the wall—but + there were three volumes just alike, and that halted me for a + minute. + + “The note was in the second volume that I opened. It was addressed + to ‘Mr. Patrick Ives. Urgent—Very Urgent.’ I stood looking at that + ‘Urgent—Very Urgent’ for a minute, and then I put it in the straw + bag that I carry for gardening and went out through the dining room + to the pantry to get myself a drink of water, because I felt a + little faint. + + “No one was in the pantry. I let the water run for a minute so that + it would get cold, and then I drank three glasses of it, quite + slowly, until my hand stopped shaking and that queer dizzy feeling + went away. Then I started back for the hall. I got as far as the + dining room, when I saw Pat standing by the desk in the corner. + + “There’s a screen between the dining-room door and the study, but it + doesn’t quite cut off the bit near the study window. I could see him + perfectly clearly. He had quite a thick little pile of white papers + in his hand, and he was counting them. They were long, narrow + papers, folded just like the bond that he’d given me for Christmas, + a year ago—just exactly like it. And while I was standing there + staring at them, Sue called to him from the hall to come out on the + porch and see his guests off, and he gave a little start and shoved + the papers into the left-hand drawer and went out toward the hall. + + “I gave him a few seconds to get to the porch, before I crossed + through the study. I was terrified that if he came back and found me + there he’d know I had the note and accuse me of it—and I knew that + when he did that all the life that I’d died twenty lives to build + for us would crumble to pieces at the first word he spoke. I + couldn’t bear to have Pat know that I suspected how base he was—that + I knew that he was Dan all over again—a baser, viler Dan, since Dan + had only had me to keep him straight, and Pat had Sue. I felt strong + enough and desperate enough to face almost anything in the world + except that Pat should know that I had found him out. So I went + through the study and the hall and up the stairs to my room in the + left wing without one backward look. + + “Once in my room, I locked the door and bolted it—and pushed a chair + against it, too, to make assurance triply sure. That’s the only + thing that I did that entire evening that makes me think I must have + been a little mad. Still, even a biased observer could hardly regard + that as homicidal madness. + + “I went over to the chintz wing chair by the window and read the + note. The chair was placed so that even in my room I could see the + roses in the garden, and a little beyond the garden, the sand pile + under the copper beech where the children played. They weren’t there + now; I’d said good-night to them outside just a minute or so before + I finished tying up the roses. I read the note through three times. + + “Of course, I completely misread it. I thought that what she was + proposing was an elopement with Pat to California. It never once + entered my head that she was referring to money that would enable + Steve and herself to live a pleasanter life in a pleasanter place, + and that her talk of hoodwinking Steve simply meant that she could + conceal the source of the money from him. + + “If I had realized that, I’d never have lifted my finger to prevent + her getting it. I thought she wanted Pat. I’d have given her two + hundred thousand dollars to go away and leave him alone. The most + ghastly and ironical thing about this whole ironical and ghastly + business is that if Mimi Bellamy hadn’t been as careless and + slip-shod with her use of the word ‘we,’ as she was with everything + else in her life, she would be alive this day under blue skies. + + “Of course it was stupid of me, too, and the first time that I read + it I was bewildered by the lack of endearments in it. But there was + all that about her hardly being able to wait, and how happy they + would be; and the note was obviously hastily written—and I had + always thought she had no depth of feeling. I suppose that all of us + read into a letter much what we expect to find there, and what I + expected to find was a twice-told tale. I expected to find that Pat + was so mad about this girl that he was willing to wreck not only his + own life for her but mine and Sue’s and Polly’s and Pete’s. And I + couldn’t to save my soul think of a way to stop him. + + “I was reading it for the third time when Melanie knocked at the + door and announced dinner, and I put it back in my bag and pushed + back the chair and unlocked the door and went down. + + “When I heard Pat and Melanie and Sue all tell you that dinner was + quite as usual that night, I wondered what strange stuff we weak + mortals are made of. When I think what Sue was thinking and what Pat + was thinking and what I was thinking, and that we could laugh and + chat and breathe as usual—no, that doesn’t seem humanly possible. + Yet that’s exactly what we did. + + “Afterward, when they went into the study to look at the ship, I + decided that I might just as well go into the rose garden and finish + the work that I’d started out there. I’d noticed some dead wood on + two of the plants, so I went to the flower room and got out the + little knife that I kept with some other small tools in a drawer + there. It’s a very good one for either budding or pruning, but I + keep it carefully put away for fear that the children might cut + their fingers. Then I went out to the garden. + + “For a while I didn’t try to think at all: I just worked. I saw Miss + Page coming back from the sand pile, and a minute or so later Sue + came by, running toward the back gate. She called to me that she was + going to the movies and that Pat was going to play poker. I was glad + that they were not going to be there; that made it easier to + think—and to breathe. + + “As you know, she returned to the house. I don’t believe she was + there more than five minutes before she came running by again and + disappeared through the back gate. I sat down on the little bench at + the end of the rose garden and tried to think. + + “I was desperately anxious to keep my head and remain cool and + collected, because one thing was perfectly clear. If something + wasn’t done immediately, it would be too late to do anything. The + question was what to do. + + “I didn’t dare to go to Pat. At bottom, I must be a miserable + coward; that was the simple, straightforward, and natural thing to + do, and I simply didn’t dare to do it. Because I thought that he + would refuse me, and that fact I couldn’t face. I was the person in + all the world who should have had most trust in him, and I didn’t + trust him at all. I remember that when I lie awake in the night. I + didn’t trust him. + + “I didn’t dare to go to Sue, either, because I was afraid that if + she knew the truth—or what I was pleased to consider the truth—she + would leave him, at any cost to Polly and Peter or herself. I knew + that she was possessed of high pride and fine courage; I didn’t know + that they would be chains to bind her to Pat. I didn’t trust her + either. + + “It wasn’t Pat and Sue and Mimi Bellamy that I was looking at, you + see. It was Dan and I and the boarding-house keeper’s Trudie. + + “I sat on the bench in the rose garden and watched the sunlight + turning into shadow and felt panic rising about me like a cold wind. + I knew that Sue hadn’t a cent; her father had left her nothing at + all, and she had refused to let Pat settle a cent on her, because + she said that she loved to ask him for money. + + “And I remembered . . . I remembered that Dan had taken nineteen + dollars and fifty cents out of the tea-pot. I remembered that I had + learned only a few weeks before that I could only hope at best for + months instead of years to live. I remembered that Sue couldn’t cook + at all, and that it was I who had done up all the children’s little + dresses in those New York days because she couldn’t iron, and made + them, because she couldn’t sew—and I wouldn’t be there. I remembered + that the only relation that she had in the world was Douglas Thorne, + and that he had four children and a wife who liked jewellery and who + didn’t like Sue. I remembered that the massage for Pete’s knee cost + twenty dollars a week, and that when Polly had had trouble with her + ear last winter the bill for the nurses and the doctors and the + operation had come to seven hundred and fifty dollars. I remembered + the way Polly looked on the black pony and Pete’s voice singing in + the sand pile. . . . + + “And then suddenly everything was perfectly clear. Mimi, of + course—I’d forgotten her entirely. She was waiting in the gardener’s + cottage now, probably, and if I went to her there and explained to + her all about Polly and Pete, and how frightfully important it was + that they should be taken care of until they could take care of + themselves, she would realize what she was doing. She was so young + and pretty and careless that she probably hadn’t ever given them a + thought. It wasn’t cruelty—it was just a reckless desire to be + happy. But once she knew—— I’d tell her all about Pat’s ghastly + childhood and the nightmare that my own life had been, and I’d + implore her to stop and think what she was doing. Once she had + stopped—once she had thought—she wouldn’t do it, of course. I felt + fifty years younger, and absolutely light-headed with relief. + + “I looked at my little wrist watch; it said ten minutes to nine. If + I waited until nine it would be almost dark, and would still give me + plenty of time to catch her before she left. It wouldn’t take me + more than fifteen minutes to get to the cottage, and I much + preferred not to have anyone know what I was planning to do. No one + would miss me if I got back by ten; I often sat in the garden until + then, and I had a little flashlight in the straw bag that I used at + such times, and that would serve my purpose excellently coming home + across the meadows. + + “I decided not to go back to the house at all, but simply to slip + out by the little gate near the sand pile and strike out on the path + that cut diagonally across the fields to the Thorne place. There + were no houses between us and Orchards, so I would be perfectly safe + from observation. By the time I had gathered up my gardening things + and looked again at my watch it was a little after nine, and I + decided that it wouldn’t be safe to wait any longer. + + “It was a very pleasant walk across the fields; it was still just + light enough to see, and the clover smelled very sweet, and the tree + toads were making a comforting little noise, and I walked quite + fast, planning just what I would say to Mimi—planning just how + reasonable and gentle and persuasive and convincing I was going to + be. + + “The path comes out at an opening in the hedge to the left of the + gardener’s cottage. I pushed through it and came up to the front + steps; there was a light in the right-hand window. I went straight + up the steps. The front door was open a little, and I pushed it open + farther and went in. There was a key on the inside of the door. I + hesitated for a moment, and then I closed it and turned the key and + dropped it into my bag. I was afraid that she might try to leave + before I’d finished explaining to her; I didn’t want her to do that. + + “She heard me then, and called out from the other room, ‘For + heaven’s sake, what’s been the matter? I didn’t think that you were + ever coming.’ + + “She had her back turned as I came into the room; she was looking + into the mirror over the piano and fluffing out her hair. There + was a lamp lit on the piano and it make her hair look like + flames—she really was extraordinarily beautiful, if that + red-and-white-and-gold-and-blue type appeals to you. Trudie’d had a + mouth that curled just that way, and those same ridiculous + eyelashes. And then she saw me in the mirror and in three seconds + that radiant face turned into a mask of suspicion and cruelty and + malice. She whirled around and stood there looking me over from head + to foot. + + “After a moment she said, ‘What are you doing here?’ + + “I said, ‘I came about Pat, Madeleine.’ + + “She said, ‘Oh, you did, did you? So that’s his game—hiding behind a + woman’s skirts! Well, you can go home and tell him to come out.’ + + “I said, ‘He doesn’t know that I’m here. I found the note.’ + + “Mimi said, ‘They can send you to jail for taking other people’s + letters. Spying and stealing from your own son! I should think you’d + be ashamed. And what good do you think it’s going to do you?’ + + “I came closer to her and said, ‘Never mind me, Madeleine, I came + here to-night to implore you to leave my son alone.’ + + “And she laughed at me—she laughed! ‘Well, you could have saved + yourself the walk. When he gets here, I’ll tell him what I think of + the two of you.’ + + “I said, ‘He’s not coming. He’s playing poker at the Dallases.’ + + “She went scarlet to her throat with anger, and she called out, + ‘That’s a lie! He’s coming and you know it. Will you get out of + here?’ + + “I said, ‘Madeleine, listen to me. I swear to you that any happiness + you purchase at the price that you’re willing to pay for it will rot + in your hands, no matter how much you love him.’ + + “And she laughed! ‘Love him? Pat? I don’t care two snaps of my + fingers for him! But I’m going to get every cent of his that I can + put my hands on, and the quicker both of you get that straight, the + better it will be for all of us.’ + + “I said, ‘I believe that is the truth, but I never believed that you + would dare to say so. You can’t—you can’t realize what you are + doing. You can’t purchase your pleasure with the comfort and + security and health and joy of two little babies who have never + harmed you once in all their lives. You can’t!’ + + “She laughed that wicked, excited little laugh of hers again, and + said through her teeth, ‘Oh, can’t I, though? Now get this straight + too: I don’t care whether your precious little babies die in a + gutter. Now, will you get out?’ + + “I couldn’t breathe. I felt exactly as though I were suffocating, + but I said, ‘No. I am an old woman, Madeleine, but I will go on my + knees to you to beg you not to ruin the lives of those two babies.’ + + “She said, ‘Oh, I’m sick to death of you and your babies and your + melodramatics. For the last time, are you going to get out of this + house or am I going to have to put you out?’ + + “She came so close to me that I could smell the horrid perfume she + wore—gardenia, I think it was—something close and sweet and hateful. + I took a step back and said, ‘You wouldn’t dare to touch me—you + wouldn’t dare!’ + + “And then she did—she gave that dreadful, excited little laugh of + hers and put both hands on my shoulders and pushed me, quite hard—so + hard that I stumbled and went forward on my knees. I tried to catch + myself, and dropped the bag and all the things in it fell out on the + carpet. I knelt there staring down at them, with the blood roaring + in my head and singing in my ears. + + “Judge Carver, what is it in our blood and bones and flesh that + rises shrieking its outrage in the weakest and meekest of us at the + touch of hands laid violently on our rebellious flesh? I could hear + it—I could hear it crying in my ears—and there on the flowered + carpet just in reach of my hand something was shining. It was the + little knife that I’d been using to cut the dead wood out so that + the live roses would grow better. I knelt there staring at it. That + story of how all their lives flash by drowning eyes—I always thought + that was an old wives’ tale—no, that’s true, I think. I could see + the rose garden with all the green leaves glossy on the big Silver + Moon. . . . I could see Pat and Sue laughing on the terrace, with + his arm across her shoulders and the sun in their eyes and the wind + in their hair. . . . I could see the children’s blue smocks through + the branches of the copper beech. . . . I stood up with the knife in + my hand. . . . + + “She screamed only once—not a very loud scream, either, but she + caught at the table as she fell, and it made a dreadful crash. I + heard someone laugh outside, quite loudly, and I leaned forward and + blew out the lamp on the piano. There was someone coming up the + front steps; I stood very still. A bell rang far back in the house, + and then someone tried the door. + + “I thought: ‘This is the end—they have known what has happened. If + no one answers, they will batter down the door. But not till they + batter down the door will I move one hairbreadth from where I + stand—and not then.’ + + “After a moment I heard the feet going down the steps, then again on + the gravel of the main drive, getting fainter and fainter. I waited + for a moment longer, because I thought that I heard something moving + in the bushes outside the window, but after a minute everything was + perfectly still, and I went over to the window and shut it and + pulled down the shade. + + “I knew that I was in great danger, and that I must think very + quickly—and act quickly too. I found the little flashlight almost + immediately, and lit it, and pushed down the catch and put it beside + me on the floor. I wanted to have both hands free, and I didn’t dare + to take the time to light the lamp. I was afraid that the person who + tried the door would come back. I had realized at once, of course, + that if I took the jewels the murder would look like robbery—and I + had to make sure that she was dead. + + “That took only a minute; the rings came off quite easily, but the + catch of the necklace caught, and I had to break the string. I + knotted the things all into my handkerchief and put them into the + bag, and the trowel and a ball of string that had fallen out, too, + and the note, and a little silver box of candy that I kept for the + children. There was the key to the front door too. I remembered that + I must leave it in the lock as I went out. I used the flashlight to + make sure that I wasn’t leaving anything, and I was—the knife was + still lying there beside her. + + “It’s curious—of all the things that happened that night, that’s the + only one that I can’t account for. I don’t remember how it got there + at all—whether I placed it there or whether I dropped it or whether + it fell—that’s curious, don’t you think? Anyhow, I picked it up and + wiped it off very carefully on one of her white lace frills and put + it back in the bag. And then I tried to get up, but I couldn’t. I + couldn’t move. I knelt there, leaning forward against the cold steel + of the little Franklin stove, feeling so mortally, so desperately + sick that for a moment I thought I should never move again. It + wasn’t the blood; it was that perfume, like dead flowers—horribly + sweet and strong. . . . After a minute I got up and went out of the + room and out of the house and back across the meadow to the garden + gate. + + “I stopped only once. I followed the hedge a little way before I + came to the path, and I stooped down and dug out two or three + trowelfuls of earth close in to the roots and shook the pearls and + the rings out of my handkerchief into the hole and covered it up and + went on. At first I thought of putting the knife there, too, and + then I decided that someone might have noticed it in the drawer and + that it would be safer to be put back where it had come from. + + “How are they ever able to trace people by the weapons they have + used? It seems to me that it should be so simple to hide a little + thing no longer than your hand, with all the earth and the waters + under the earth to hide it in. + + “It was the knife that I was washing in the flower room; it still + had one or two little stains near the handle, but there wasn’t any + blood on my hands at all. I’d been very careful. + + “After I’d put everything away I took the note and went upstairs. At + first I thought that I’d tear it up, but then I decided that someone + might find the scraps, and that the safest thing to do would be to + keep it until the next day and burn it. And before the next day I + knew that Sue and Stephen had no actual alibi for that night, and so + I never burned the note. + + “That’s all. While I lay there in the dark that night—and every + night since—I’ve tried saying it over and over to myself: + ‘Murderess—murderess.’ A black and bloody and dreadful word; does it + sound as alien to the ears of all the others whose title it is as it + does to mine? Murderess! We should feel differently from the rest of + the world once we have earned that dreadful title, should we not? + Something sinister, something monstrous and dark should invest us, + surely. It seems strange that still we who bear that name should + rise to the old familiar sunlight and sleep by the old familiar + starlight; that bread should still be good to us, and flowers sweet; + that we should say good-morning and good-night in voices that no man + shudders to hear. The strangest thing of all is to feel so little + strange. + + “Judge Carver, I have written to you because I do not know whether + any taint of suspicion still clings to any of those who have taken + part in this trial. If in your mind there does, I will promptly give + myself up to the proper authorities and tell them the essential + facts that I have told you. + + “But if, in your opinion, suspicion rests on no man or woman, living + or dead, I would say only this: I am not afraid to die—indeed, + indeed, I am rather anxious to die. Life is no longer very dear to + me. Two physicians have told me this last year that I will not live + to see another. I can obtain from them a certificate to that effect, + if you desire. And I have already sent to my lawyers a sealed + envelope containing a full confession, marked, ‘To be sent to the + authorities in case anyone should be accused of the death of Mrs. + Stephen Bellamy, either before or after my death.’ I would not have + any human being live through such days as these have been—no, not to + save my life, or what is dearer to me than my life. + + “But, Judge Carver, will the ends of justice be better served if + that boy who believes that my only creed is gentleness and kindness + and mercy, and who has learned therefore to be merciful and gentle + and kind—if that boy learns that now he must call me murderess? If + those happy, happy little children who bring every bumped head and + cut finger to me to kiss it and make it whole must live to learn to + call me murderess? + + “I don’t want Polly and Pete to know—I don’t want them to know—I + don’t want them to know. + + “If you could reach me without touching them I would not ask you to + show me mercy. But if no one else need suffer for my silence, I beg + of you—I beg you—forget that you are only Justice, and remember to + be merciful. + + “Margaret Ives.” + +For a long time the judge sat silent and motionless, staring down at +that small mountain of white pages. In his tired face his dark eyes +burned, piercing and tireless. Finally they moved, with a curious +deliberation, to that other pile of white pages that he had been +studying when the messenger boy had come knocking at the door. Yes, +there it was: + +“An accessory after the fact is one who while not actually +participating in the crime, yet in any way helps the murderer to +escape trial or conviction, either by concealing him or by assisting +him to escape or by destroying material evidence or by any other means +whatever. It is a serious crime in itself, but does not make him a +principal——” + +He sat motionless, his unwavering eyes fixed on the words before him +as though he would get them by heart. . . . After a long moment, he +stirred, lifted his head, and drew the little pile of papers that held +the life of Patrick Ives’s mother toward him. + +The blue paper first; the torn scraps settled down on the shining +surface as lightly and inconsequently as butterflies. Then the white +ones—a little mound of snow-flakes that grew under the quick, sure +fingers to a little mountain—higher—higher—blue and white, they were +swept into that great brass bowl that had been so conveniently +designed for ashes. A match spurted, and little flames leaped gaily, +and a small spiral of smoke twisted up toward the white-robed lady +above the door. Across the room, between the windows beyond which +shone the stars, John Marshall was smiling above the dancing +flames—and she smiled back at him, gravely and wisely, as though they +shared some secret understanding. + + + The End + + + +TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE + +This transcription follows the text of the edition published by +Doubleday, Page & Company in 1927. The following changes have been +made to correct what are believed to be unambiguous printer’s errors. + + * “thought there there” was changed to “thought that there” + (Chapter II). + * “nineteeth” was changed to “nineteenth” (Chapter II). + * “played around” was changed to “played a round” (Chapter III). + * “How any” was changed to “How many” (Chapter IV). + * “Pott’s” was changed to “Potts’s” (Chapter IV). + * “dissertion” was changed to “dissertation” (Chapter V). + * “paino” was changed to “piano” (Chapter V). + * “continuue” was changed to “continue” (Chapter V). + * “inobstrusive” was changed to “inobtrusive” (Chapter V). + * “indentification” was changed to “identification” (Chapter V). + * “where the switch it” was changed to “where the switch is” + (Chapter VII). + * “coutenances” was changed to “countenances” (Chapter VII). + * “staightforward” was changed to “straightforward” (Chapter VII). + * “Belamy” was changed to “Bellamy” (Chapter VII). + * “that that of” was changed to “than that of” (Chapter VII). + * “witheld” was changed to “withheld” (Chapter VII). + * “fiance” was changed to “fiancé” (Chapter VIII). + * “certicate” was changed to “certificate” (Chapter VIII). + * A comma at the end of a sentence has been corrected to a period. + * Seven occurrences of mismatched quotation marks have been repaired. + +Finally, there is a passage in Chapter II that reads “and Mrs. Bellamy +said”, but in context this is impossible and it is obvious that Mrs. +Ives is the one speaking. The passage has therefore been changed to +“and Mrs. Ives said”. + +All other seeming errors in the original text have been left +unchanged. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75325 *** |