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.