“Are you still in the employ of Mrs. Ives?”
“No. On I resign, since I am not quite content with something that have happen.”
“Did this occurrence have anything to do with the death of Mrs. Bellamy?”
“That I do not say. But I was not content.”
“Miss Cordier, have you seen this book before? I call your attention to its title—Stone on Commercial Paper, Volume III.”
Miss Cordier’s black eyes swept it perfunctorily. “Yes, that book I know.”
“When did you last see it?”
“The night of , about nine o’clock.”
“Where?”
“In the study of Mr. Ives.”
“What particularly brought it to your attention?”
“Because I take it out of the corner by the desk to look inside it.”
“For what purpose?”
“Because I want to see whether a note I put there that afternoon still was there.”
“And was that note still there, Miss Cordier?”
“No, monsieur, that note, it was gone.”
The prosecutor tossed the impressive volume carelessly on to the clerk’s desk. “I offer this volume in evidence, Your Honour.”
“Any objections?” Judge Carver turned an inquiring eye on the bulky figure of Dudley Lambert, hovering uncertainly over the buckram-clad repository of correspondence.
Mr. Lambert, shifting from one foot to the other, eyed the volume as though he were endeavouring to decide whether it were an infernal machine or a jewel casket, and with one final convulsive effort arrived at a conclusion: “No objection.”
“Miss Cordier, to whom was the note that you placed in the book addressed?”
“It was addressed to Mr. Patrick Ives.”
“Was it written by you?”
“Ah, no, no, monsieur.”
“Do you know by whom it was written?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“By whom?”
“By Mrs. Stephen Bellamy.”
“And how did it happen that you were in possession of a note from Mrs. Bellamy to Mr. Ives?”
“It was the habit of Mrs. Bellamy to mail to me letters that she desire’ to have reach Mr. Ives, without anyone should know. Outside there would be my name on the envelope; inside there would be a more small envelope with the name of Mr. Ives on it. That one I would put in the book.”
“You had been doing this for some time?”
“For some time, yes—six months—maybe eight.”
“How many notes had you placed there, to the best of your recollection?”
“Ah, that I am not quite sure—ten—twelve—twenty—who knows? At first once a month, maybe; that last month, two and three each week.”
“At what time did you put the note there?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes before seven, maybe twenty. After half-past six, I know, and not yet seven.”
“Was that your usual habit?”
“Oh, no, monsieur; it was my habit to put them there in the night, when I make dark the house. Half-past six, that was a very bad time, because quite easily someone might see.”
“Then why did you choose that time, Miss Cordier?”
“Oh, but I do not choose. You see, it was like this: That night, when MacDonald, the chauffeur, bring in the letters a little bit after six, this one it was there for me, in a envelope that was write on it ‘Urgent.’ On the little envelope inside it say ‘Urgent—Very Urgent’ in letters with lines under them most black, and so I know that there is great haste that Mr. Patrick Ives he should get that letter quick. So I start to go to the study, but there in the hall is all those people who have come from the club, and Mrs. Ives she send me quick to get some canapés, and Mr. Dallas he come with me to show me what he want for the cocktails—limes and honey and all those thing, you know.” She looked appealingly at the prosecutor from the long black eyes and for a moment his tense countenance relaxed into a grim smile.
“You were about to tell us why you placed the note there at that time.”
“Yes; that is what I tell. Well, I wait and I wait for those people to go home, and still they do not go, but I dare not go in so long as across the hall from the study they all stay in that living room. But after a while I cannot wait any longer for fear that Mr. Patrick Ives should come and not find that most urgent note. So very quiet I slip in when I think no one look, and I put that note quick, quick in the book, and I start to come out in the hall; but when I get to the door I see there is someone in the hall and I step back again to wait till they are gone.”
“And whom did you see in the hall, Miss Cordier?”
“I see in the hall Mr. Elliot Farwell and Mrs. Patrick Ives.”
“Did they see you?”
Miss Cordier lifted eloquent shoulders. “How do I know, monsieur? Maybe they do, maybe they don’t—me, I cannot tell. I step back quick and listen, and after a while their voices stop and I hear a door close, and I come out quick through the hall and into the door to the kitchen without I see no one.”
“Did you hear what Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives were saying?”
“No, that I could not hear even when I listen, so low they talk, so low that almost they whisper.”
“You heard nothing else while you were there?”
“Yes, monsieur. While I stand by the desk, but before I take out the book, I heard mademoiselle go through the hall with the children.”
“Mademoiselle? Mademoiselle who?” The prosecutor’s voice
