“I am telling you,” said Miss Page equably, “that nothing remotely resembling that occurred. Mrs. Ives was extremely regretful and considerate, and there was not a word as to my leaving.”
Apoplexy hovered tentatively over Mr. Lambert’s bulky shoulder. “Do you deny that two days before this murder your insolence had once more precipitated a scene that had resulted in your dismissal, and that you were intending to leave on the following Monday?”
“Most certainly I deny it.”
“A scene that arose from the fact that during Mrs. Ives’s absence in town you ordered the car to take you and a friend of yours from White Plains for a three-hour drive in the country, and that when Mrs. Ives telephoned from town to have the car meet her, as she was returning that afternoon instead of the next day, she was informed that you were out in it and she was obliged to take a taxi?”
“That is not true either.”
“It is not true that you went for a drive with a young man that afternoon?”
“Oh, that is quite true; but I had Mrs. Ives’s permission to do so before she left.”
For a moment Mr. Lambert turned his crimson countenance toward Susan Ives. She had lifted her head and was staring, steadily and contemptuously, at her erstwhile nursery governess, whose limpid eyes moved only from Mr. Lambert to Mr. Farr and back. Even the contempt could not extinguish a frankly diverted twist to her lips at the pat audacity of the gentle replies. Evidently Mr. Lambert could find no comfort there. He turned back to his witness.
“Miss Page, do you know what perjury is?”
“Your Honour—”
Miss Page’s lightning promptitude cut through the prosecutor’s voice: “It’s a demonstrably false statement made under oath, isn’t it?”
“Just wait a minute, please, Miss Page. Your Honour, I respectfully submit that this entire line of cross-examination by Mr. Lambert is extremely objectionable. I have let it go this far because I don’t want to prolong this trial with a lot of unnecessary bickering; but, as far as I can see, he has simply been entertaining the jury with a series of exciting little episodes that there is not a shred of reason to believe are not the offspring of his own fertile imagination. According to Miss Page, they are just exactly that. They are, however, skilfully calculated to prejudice her in the eyes of the jury, and when Mr. Lambert goes so far as to imply in no uncertain manner that Miss Page’s denial of these fantasies is perjury, I can no longer—”
“Your Honour, do you consider this oration for the benefit of the jury proper?” Mr. Lambert’s voice was unsteady with rage.
“I do not, sir. Nor do I consider it the only impropriety that has occurred. I see no legitimate place in cross-examination for a request for a definition of perjury. However, you have received your reply. You may proceed with your cross-examination.”
“Miss Page, when you realized that Mrs. Ives was talking to someone on the telephone, why did you not go on into the house?”
“Because I was interested in what she was saying.”
“So you eavesdropped, eh?”
“Yes.”
“A very pretty, honourable, decent thing to do in your opinion?”
“Oh,” said Miss Page, with her most disarming smile, “I don’t pretend not to be human.”
“Well, that’s very reassuring. Can you tell us why Mrs. Ives didn’t hear you outside on the porch, Miss Page?”
“I wasn’t on the porch. I had just started to come up the steps when I stopped to listen. I had on tennis shoes, which wouldn’t make any noise at all on the lawn.”
“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly?”
“Oh, quite.”
“So that anybody else could have heard her distinctly too?”
“Anyone who was standing in that place could have—yes.”
“She was making a secret rendezvous and yet was speaking in a tone sufficiently audible for any passerby to hear?”
“She probably thought there would be no passerby.”
“Your Honour, I ask to have that stricken from the record as deliberately unresponsive.”
“You were not asked as to Mrs. Ives’s thoughts, Miss Page. Mr. Lambert asked you whether any passerby could not have heard Mrs. Ives’s conversation.”
“Anyone who passed over the route that I did could have heard it perfectly.”
“Mr. Patrick Ives could have heard it?”
“Mr. Patrick Ives was upstairs.”
“That was not my question. I asked you if Patrick Ives could not have heard it quite as readily as you?”
“He could, if he had been there.”
“Miss Page, will you be good enough to repeat that conversation for us once again?”
“The whole thing?”
“Certainly.”
“Mrs. Ives said”—again the little frown of concentration—“she said, ‘Is that you Stephen? … It’s Sue—Sue Ives. Is Mimi there? … How long ago did she leave? … Are you sure she went there? … No, wait—this is vital—I have to see you at once. Can you get the car here in ten minutes? … No, not at the house. Stop at the far corner of the back road. I’ll come through the back gate to meet you. … Elliot hasn’t said anything to you? … No, no, never mind that—just hurry. … Goodbye.’ ”
Mr. Lambert beamed at her—a ferocious and colossal beam. “Now, that’s very nice—very nice, indeed, Miss Page. Every word pat, eh? Almost as though you’d learned it by heart, shouldn’t you say?”
“That’s probably because I did learn it by heart,” proffered Miss Page helpfully.
The beam forsook Mr. Lambert’s countenance, leaving the ferocity. “Oh, you learned it by heart, did you? Between the front steps and the side door, I suppose?”
“Not exactly. I wrote it down before I went in the side door.”
“You did what?”
“I wrote it down while Mrs. Ives was talking, most of it. The last sentence or so I did just before I came in.”
Mr. Lambert took a convulsive grip on his sagging jaw. “Oh, indeed! Brought back a portable typewriter and a fountain pen and a box of notepaper from the sandpile, too, I suppose?”
Miss Page smiled patiently and politely.
“No; but I had some crayons of the children’s in my sweater pocket.”
“And half a dozen pads, too, no doubt?”
“No, I wrote it on
