“Did you tell him about it?”
“Not at that moment. As I was about to do so, Mrs. Ives herself called up from the foot of the stairs to ask Mr. Ives if he still intended to go to the poker game at the Dallases. … Shall I go on?”
“Certainly.”
“Mr. Ives said yes, and Mrs. Ives said that in that case she would go to the movies with the Conroys, who had asked her before dinner. Mr. Ives asked her if he couldn’t drop her there, and she said no—that it was only a short walk and that she needed the exercise. She went straight out of the front door, I think. I heard it slam behind her.”
“What did you do then?”
“I said, ‘Your wife has gone to meet Stephen Bellamy.’ ”
“And then what happened?”
“Mr. Ives said, ‘Don’t be a damned little fool.’ ”
Miss Page smiled meekly and appreciatively at the audible ripple from the other side of the railing.
“Did you say anything to that?”
“I simply repeated the telephone conversation.”
“Word for word?”
“Word for word, and when I’d finished, he said, ‘My God, somebody’s told her.’ ”
“I object. Your Honour, I ask that that be stricken from the record!” Lambert’s frenzied clamour filled the room. “What Mr. Ives said—”
“It may be stricken out.”
Judge Carver’s tone was the sternest of rebukes, but the unchastened prosecutor stood staring down at her demure face triumphant for a moment, and then, with a brief expressive gesture toward the defense, turned her abruptly over to their mercies. “That’s all. Cross-examine.”
“No lunch today either?”
“No, I’ve got to get these notes off.”
The redheaded girl proudly exhibited an untidy pile of telegraph blanks and a much-bitten pencil. The gold pencil and the black leather notebook had been flung contemptuously out of the cab window on the way back to the boarding house the night before.
“Me too. We’ll finish ’em up here and I’ll get ’em off for you. … Here’s your apple.”
The redheaded girl took it obediently, a fine glow invading her. How simply superb to be working there beside a real reporter; such a fire of comradeship and good will burned in her that it set twin fires flaming in her cheeks. The newspaper game! There was nothing like it, absolutely. Her pencil tore across the page in a fever of industry.
It was almost fifty minutes before the reporter spoke again, and then it was only in reply to a question: “What—what did you think of her?”
“Think of whom?”
“Of Kathleen Page.”
“Well, you don’t happen to have a pat of the very best butter about you?”
“Whatever for?”
“To see if it would melt in her mouth.”
“It wouldn’t,” said the redheaded girl; and added fiercely, “I hate her—nasty, hypocritical, unprincipled little toad!”
“Oh, come, come! I hope that you won’t allow any of this to creep into those notes of yours.”
“She probably killed Mimi Bellamy herself,” replied the newest member of the Fourth Estate darkly. “I wouldn’t put it past her for a moment. She—”
“The Court!”
The redheaded girl flounced to her feet, the fires still burning in her cheeks, eyeing Miss Page’s graceful ascent to the witness box with a baleful eye. “I hope she’s headed straight for all the trouble there is,” she remarked between clenched teeth to the reporter.
For the moment it looked as though her wish were about to be gratified.
Mr. Lambert lumbered menacingly toward the witness box, his ruddy face grim and relentless. “You remember a great deal about that evening, don’t you, Miss Page?”
“I have a very good memory.” Miss Page’s voice was the prettiest mixture of pride and humility.
“Do you happen to remember the book that you were reading?”
“Perfectly.”
“Give us the title, please.”
“The book was Cytherea, one of Hergesheimer’s old novels.”
“Was it your own book?”
“No, it came from Mr. Ives’s study.”
“Had he loaned it to you?”
“No.”
“Had Mrs. Ives loaned it to you?”
“No one had loaned it to me; I had simply borrowed it from the study.”
“Oh, you were given the run of the books in Mr. Ives’s study? I see.” Miss Page sat silent, eyeing him steadily, only a slight stain of colour under the clear, pale skin betraying the fact that she had heard him. “Were you?” demanded Mr. Lambert savagely, leaning toward her.
“Was I what?”
“Were you given the run of Mr. Ives’s library?”
“I had never stopped to formulate it in that way. I supposed that there could be no possible objection to taking an occasional book.”
“I see. You regarded yourself as one of the family?”
“Oh, hardly that.”
“Did you take your meals with them?”
“No.”
“Spend the evenings with them?”
“No.”
Miss Page’s fringed eyes were as luminous and steady as ever, but the stain in her cheeks had spread to her throat.
“You resented that fact, didn’t you?”
The prosecutor’s voice whipped out of the brief silence like a sword leaping from the scabbard: “I object to that question. To paraphrase my learned opponent, what possible relevance has Miss Page’s sense of resentment or contentment got to do with the murder of this girl?”
“And to quote my witty adversary’s reply, Your Honour, it has everything to do with it. We propose definitely to attack Miss Page’s credibility. We believe we can show that she detested Mrs. Ives and would not hesitate to do her a disservice.”
“Oh,” said the prosecutor, with much deliberation, “that’s what you propose to show, is it?”
Even the clatter of the judge’s gavel did not cause him to turn his head an inch. He continued to gaze imperturbably at the occupant in the box, who, demure and pensive, returned it unswervingly. In the brief moment occupied by the prosecutor’s skilful intervention the flush had faded entirely. Miss Page looked as cool and tranquil as a little spring in the forest.
“You may answer the question, Miss Page,” said the judge a trifle sternly.
“May I have the question repeated?”
“I asked whether you didn’t resent the fact that you were treated as a servant rather than as a member of the household.”
“It never entered my head
