“Mr. Thorne does not live in Rosemont?”
“No; he lives the other side of Lakedale, which is about twelve miles nearer New York. When I finally reached him, after his return from a golf match, I explained to him the urgency of getting into the house as early as possible the following morning and suggested that he might drive over after dinner and leave the keys under the mat of the cottage. I apologized to Mr. Thorne for causing him so much trouble, and he remarked that it was no trouble at all, as—”
“No, not what he remarked, Mr. Conroy—only what you said.”
“I do not remember that I said anything further of any importance.”
“Do you know at what time Mr. Thorne is in the habit of dining, Mr. Conroy?”
“I do not, sir.”
“How long should you say that it would take to drive from Mr. Thorne’s home to Orchards?”
“It is, roughly, about fourteen miles. I should imagine that it would depend entirely on the rate at which you drove.”
“Driving at an ordinary rate, some thirty-five to forty minutes, should you say?”
“Possibly.”
“So that if Mr. Thorne had finished his dinner at about eight, he would have arrived at Orchards shortly before nine?”
“I really couldn’t tell you, Mr. Farr. You know quite as much about that as I do.”
Mr. Conroy’s small, harassed, unhappy face looked almost defiant for a moment, and then wavered under the geniality of the prosecutor’s infrequent smile.
“I believe that you are right, Mr. Conroy.” He turned abruptly toward the court crier. “Is Mr. Douglas Thorne in court?”
“Mr. Douglas Thorne!” intoned the crier in his high, pleasant falsetto.
A tall lean man, bronzed and distinguished, rose promptly to his feet from his seat in the fourth row. “Here, sir.”
“Mr. Thorne, will you be good enough to speak to me after court is over? … Thanks. That will be all, Mr. Conroy. Cross-examine.”
Mr. Lambert approached the witness box with a curious air of caution.
“It was entirely at your suggestion that Mr. Thorne brought the keys, was it not, Mr. Conroy?”
“Oh, certainly—entirely.”
“He might have left them there at eight o’clock or at even eleven o’clock, as far as you know?”
“Exactly.”
“That is all, Mr. Conroy.”
“No further questions,” said the prosecutor curtly. “Call Dr. Paul Stanley.”
“Dr. Paul Stanley!”
The man who took Herbert Conroy’s place in the witness box was a comfortable-looking individual with a fine thatch of gray hair and an amiable and intelligent countenance, which he turned benignly on the prosecutor.
“What is your profession, Dr. Stanley?”
“I am a surgeon. In my early youth I was that now fabulous creature, a general practitioner.”
He smiled engagingly at the prosecutor, and the crowded courtroom relaxed. A nice, restful individual, after the haunted little real-estate broker.
“You have performed autopsies before, Dr. Stanley?”
“Frequently.”
“And in this case you performed the autopsy on the body of Madeleine Bellamy?”
“I did.”
“Where did you first see the body?”
“In the front room of the gardener’s cottage on the Thorne estate.”
“Did you hear Mr. Conroy’s testimony?”
“Yes.”
“Was the body in the position in which he described it at the time that he saw it?”
“In exactly that position. Later, for purposes of the autopsy, it was removed to the room opposite—the dining room.”
“Please tell us under what circumstances you first saw the body.”
“Certainly.” Dr. Stanley settled himself a trifle more comfortably in his chair and turned a trifle toward the jury, who stared back gratefully into his friendly countenance. If Dr. Stanley had been explaining just how he reeled in the biggest trout of the season, he could not have looked more affably at ease. “I went out to the cottage with my friend Elias Dutton, the coroner, and two or three state troopers. Mr. Conroy had turned over the key to the cottage to us, and we found everything as he had described it to us.”
“Were there signs of a struggle?”
“You mean on the body?”
“Yes—scratches, bruises, torn or disarranged clothing?”
“No, there were no signs of any description of a struggle, save for the overturned table and the lamp.”
“Might that have happened when Mrs. Bellamy fell?”
“The table might very readily have been overturned at that time; it was toward Mrs. Bellamy’s head and almost on top of the body. The lamp, on the other hand, was practically at her feet.”
“Could it have rolled there as the table crashed?”
“Possibly, but it’s doubtful. The fragments of lamp chimney and shade were there, too, you see, some six feet away from the table.”
“I see. Will you tell us now, Dr. Stanley, just what caused the death of Mrs. Bellamy?”
“Mrs. Bellamy’s heart was punctured by some sharp instrument—a knife, I should say.”
“There was only one wound?”
“Yes.”
“Will you please describe it to us?”
“There was a clean incision about three quarters of an inch long in the skin just over the heart. The instrument had penetrated to a depth of approximately three inches, and had passed between the ribs over the heart.”
“Was it necessary that the blow should have been delivered with great force?”
“Not necessarily. If the knife had struck a rib, it would have taken considerable force to deflect it, but in this case it encountered no obstacle whatever.”
“So that a woman with a strong wrist could have struck the blow?”
“Oh, certainly—or a woman with a weak wrist—or a child—or a strong man, as far as that goes. There is no evidence at all from the wound as to the force with which the blow was delivered.”
“I see.” Mr. Farr reached casually over to the clerk’s desk and handed Dr. Stanley the dreadful rag that had been Madeleine Bellamy’s white lace dress. “Do you recognize this dress, Doctor?”
“Perfectly.”
“Will you be good enough to indicate to us just where the knife penetrated the fabric?”
Dr. Stanley turned it deftly in his long-fingered, capable hands. Something in that skilful scientific touch seemed to purge it of horror—averted eyes travelled back to it warily.
“The knife went through it right here. If you look closely, you can see the severed threads—just here, where the stain is darkest.”
“Exactly. Would such a
