“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
