Miss Biggs’s voice broke on a great sob, and suddenly the crowded courtroom faded. … It was a hot July night in a village street and the shrill, angry voices of the two girls filled the air. Once more Mimi Dawson, insolent in her young beauty, was telling little Florrie Biggs to keep her small snub nose out of other people’s affairs. All the injured woe of that far-off night was in her sob.
“Did she speak of him again?”
“Oh, yes, sir, she certainly did. She used to speak of him most of the time—after we made it up again, that is.”
“Did she tell you whether they were expecting to be married?”
“Not in just so many words, she didn’t, but she used to sort of discuss it a lot, like whether it would be a good thing to do, and if they’d be happy in Rosemont or whether New York wouldn’t work better—you know, just kind of thinking it over.”
Mr. Farr looked gravely sympathetic. “Exactly. Nothing more definite than that?”
“Well, I remember once she said that she’d do it in a minute if she were sure that Pat had it in him to make good.”
“And did you gather from that and other remarks of hers that it was she who was holding back and Mr. Ives who was urging marriage?”
“Oh, yes, sir,” said Miss Biggs, and added earnestly, “I think she meant me to gather that.”
There was a warm, friendly little ripple of amusement, at which she lifted startled blue eyes.
“Quite so. Now when Mr. Ives went to France, Miss Biggs, what did your circle consider the state of affairs between them to be?”
“We all thought they was sure to get married,” said Miss Biggs, and added in a low voice, “Some of us thought maybe they was married already.”
“And just what made you think that?”
Miss Biggs moved restlessly in her chair. “Oh, nothing special, I guess; only they seemed so awfully gone on each other, and Pat was always hiring flivvers to take her off to Redfield and—and places. They never went much with the crowd anymore, and lots of people were getting married then—you know, war marriages—” The soft, hesitant voice trailed off into silence.
“I see. Just what was Mr. Ives’s reputation with your crowd, Miss Biggs? Was he a steady, hardworking young man?”
“He wasn’t so awfully hardworking, I guess.”
The distressed murmur was not too low to reach Patrick Ives’s ears, evidently; for a brief moment his white face was lit with the gayest of smiles, impish and endearing. It faded, and the eyes that had been suddenly blue faded, too, back to their frozen gray.
“Was he popular?”
“Oh, everyone liked him fine,” said Miss Biggs eagerly. “He was the most popular fellow in Rosemont, I guess. He was a swell dancer, and he certainly could play on the ukulele and skate and do perfectly killing imitations and—and everything.”
“Then why did you warn your friend against consorting with this paragon, Miss Biggs?”
“Sir?”
“Why did you tell Mimi Dawson that she shouldn’t play around too much with Pat Ives?”
“Oh—oh, well, I guess, like she said, I was just foolish and it wasn’t none of my business.”
“You said, a ‘fellow like Pat Ives,’ Miss Biggs. What kind of a fellow did you mean? The kind of a fellow who played the ukulele? Or did he play something else?”
“Well—well, he played cards some—poker, you know, and red dog and—well, billiards, you know.”
“He gambled, didn’t he?”
“Now, Your Honour,” remarked Mr. Lambert heavily, “is this to be permitted to go on indefinitely? I have deliberately refrained from objecting to a most amazing line of questions—”
“The Court is inclined to agree with you, Mr. Lambert. Is it in any way relevant to the state’s case whether Mr. Ives played the ukulele or the organ, Mr. Farr?”
“It is quite essential to the state’s case to prove that Mr. Ives has a reckless streak in his character that led directly to the murder of Madeleine Bellamy, Your Honour. We contend that just as in those months before the war in the village of Rosemont, so in the year of , he was gambling with his own safety and happiness and honour, and as in those days, with the happiness and honour and safety of a woman as well—with the same woman with whom he was renewing the affair broken off by a trick of fate nine years before. We contend—”
“Yes. Well, the Court contends that your questioning along these lines has been quite exhaustive enough, and that furthermore it doubts its relevance to the present issue. You may proceed.”
“Very well, Your Honour. … When Mr. Ives returned in , were you still seeing much of Miss Dawson?”
“No, sir,” said Miss Biggs in a low voice. “Not any hardly.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, mostly it was because she was starting to go with another crowd—the country-club crowd, you know. She was all the time with Mr. Farwell.”
“Exactly. Did you renew your intimacy at any later period?”
“No, sir, not ever.”
Once more the cotton fingers were busy with the treacherous tears, falling for Mimi, lost so many years ago—lost again, most horribly, after those unhappy years.
“Thank you, Miss Biggs. That will be all. Cross-examine.”
Mr. Lambert’s heavy face, turned to those drowned and terrified eyes, was almost paternal. “You say that for many years there was no intimacy between you and Mrs. Bellamy, Miss Biggs?”
“No, sir, there wasn’t—not any.”
“Mrs. Bellamy never took you into her
