“That’s it—he just didn’t turn up.” Mr. Dallas’s voice made a feeble effort to imply that nothing could possibly be of less consequence between men of the world.
Mr. Lambert, stupor still rounding his eyes, made a vague gesture of dismissal, his face carefully averted from Sue Ives’s sternly accusing countenance.
“No further questions.”
Mr. Dallas scrambled hastily to his feet, his ingenuous gaze turned hopefully on the prosecutor.
The expression on the prosecutor’s classic features, however, was not calculated to reassure the most optimistic. Mr. Farr was contemplating the amiable countenance of his late witness with much the look of astounded displeasure which must have adorned Medusa’s first audience. He, too, sketched a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door, and Dallas, eager and docile, followed it.
The third day of the Bellamy trial was over.
IV
“Well, this is the time you beat me to it,” commented the reporter approvingly. “That’s the hat I like too. Want a pencil?”
“I always want a pencil,” said the redheaded girl. “And I beat everybody to it. I’d rather get here at six o’clock than go through that howling mob of maniacs one single time more. Besides, I’ve been sleeping, so I might as well be here. Besides, I thought that if I got here early you might tell me whether it was Mr. Ives or Mr. Farwell who did it.”
“Who did what?”
“Who killed Mrs. Bellamy.”
“Oh, Lord!” groaned the reporter. “Why is it that every mortal soul at a murder trial spends his life trying to pin the crime on to anyone in the world but the people being tried for it. Talk about juries!”
“I’m not talking about juries,” said the redheaded girl firmly. “I’m talking about Mr. Farwell, and Mr. Ives. Don’t you think that it was funny that Mr. Farwell was there that day?”
“Oh, comical as all get out! Still and all, I believe that he was there precisely when he said he was. That poor devil was telling the truth.”
“How do you know?” inquired the redheaded girl respectfully.
“Oh, you get hunches at this game when you’ve been at it long enough.”
“That must be nice. Did you get a hunch about Mr. Ives?”
“About Pat Ives? I haven’t heard him yet.”
“What did it mean, his not being at that poker game?”
“Well, it might have meant anything in the world—or nothing. The only thing that’s perfectly clear is that it meant that last night was undoubtedly one of wassail and carouse for Uncle Dudley Lambert.”
“Why?”
“My dear child, didn’t you see the look of unholy glee that flooded the old gentleman’s countenance when he realized that young Mr. Ives hadn’t a shadow of an alibi for that eventful evening?”
“Well, but why?”
“Because the only thing that Uncle Dudley would as soon do as save his angel goddaughter from the halter is to drape one around Pat Ives’s neck. He’s hated Pat ever since he dared to subject his precious Sue to a life of good healthy hardship in New York; he’s never forgiven him for estranging her from her father; and since he found out that he betrayed her with the Bellamy girl, he’s been simply imbecile with rage. And now, through some heaven-sent fluke, he’s enabled to put his life in jeopardy. He’s almost out of his head. He’d better go a bit warily, however. If I can read the human countenance—and it may interest you to know that I can read the human countenance—Mrs. Patrick Ives is not entirely in favour of sending her unworthy spouse to the gallows. She had a monitory look in her eye that bodes ill for Uncle Dudley if she ever realizes what he’s doing.”
The redheaded girl heaved an unhappy sigh. “Well, I don’t believe that anyone did it,” she remarked spaciously. “Not anyone here, I mean. Burglars, probably, or one of those funny organizations, or—”
“Silence, silence! The Court!”
Mr. Farr had a new purple necktie, sombre and impressive; Mr. Lambert was a trifle more frivolous, though the polka dots were discreet; Mrs. Ives wore the same tweed suit, the same copper-coloured hat. Heavens, it might as well be a uniform!
“Call Miss Cordier.”
“Miss Melanie Cordier!”
The slim elegance of the figure in the severely simple black coat and black cloche hat was especially startling when one remembered that Miss Melanie Cordier was the waitress in the Ives household. It was a trifle more comprehensible when one remembered that she was as Gallic as her name implied. With her creamy skin, her long black eyes and smooth black curves of hair, her lacquer-red mouth exactly matching the lacquer-red camellia on her lapel, Miss Cordier bore a striking resemblance to a fashion magazine’s cover designs. She mounted the witness box with profound composure and seated herself, elaborately at ease.
“Miss Cordier, what was your occupation on the ?”
“I was waitress in the employment of Mrs. Patrick Ives.” There was only the faintest trace of accent in the clear syllables—a slight softening of consonants and broadening of vowels, becoming enough variations on an Anglo-Saxon theme.
“How long had you been in her employ?”
“A year and nine month—ten month. I could not be quite sure.”
“How did you happen to go to Mrs. Ives?”
“It was through Mrs. Bellamy that I go.”
“Mrs. Stephen Bellamy?”
“Yes, sir, through Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.”
“Will you tell us just how that happened, Miss Cordier?”
“Assuredly. My little younger sister had been sent by an agency three or four years ago to Mrs. Bellamy directly when she land in this country. She was quite inexperience’, you understand, and could not command a position such as one trained could demand; but Mrs. Bellamy was good to her and she work hard, and after a while she marries a young man who drives for the grocer and they—”
“Yes, quite so, Miss Cordier. My question was, how did Mrs. Bellamy happen to send you to Mrs. Ives?”
“Yes, that is what I explain.” Miss Cordier, exquisitely unruffled, pursued the even tenor of her way. “Sometime when my sister was there with Mrs. Bellamy
