“Mademoiselle Page.”
“You say that she was simply passing through the hall?”
“Yes, monsieur—on her way to the stairs.”
“You had not yet touched the book?”
“No, monsieur.”
“You waited until she passed before you did so?”
“Yes.”
“Was Mrs. Ives in the hall at the time that you placed the note in the book?”
“Ah, that, too, I do not say. I say only that she was there one minute—one half minute after I have put it there.”
“Could she have seen you place it in the book from the position in which you saw her standing?”
“It is possible.”
“Was she facing you?”
“No, monsieur; it is Mr. Farwell who face’ me. Mrs. Ives had the back toward me.”
Again that shadow of fierce annoyance, turning the blue eyes almost black. “Then what makes you say that she might have seen you?”
The dark eyes meeting his widened a trifle in something too tranquil for surprise—a mild, indolent wonder at the obtuseness of the human race in general, men in particular, and prosecutors more particularly still. “I say that because it might well be that in that little minute she have turn’ the back to me, or if she have not, then it might be that she see in the mirror.”
“There was a mirror?”
“But yes, on the other side of the hall from the study door there is a long, long chair—a what you call a bench—where the gentlemen they leave their hats. Over that there hangs the mirror. And it was by that bench that I see Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives.”
“And the desk and the bookcase were reflected in the mirror?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“I see. Now did you notice anything at dinner, Miss Cordier?”
“Nothing at all; everything was as usual, of an entire serenity.”
“It was at the usual hour?”
“At quarter past seven—yes.”
“Who was present?”
“Mrs. Patrick Ives, Mrs. Daniel Ives, Mr. Ives, as usual.”
“Do you recall the conversation?”
“Oh, no, monsieur, I recall only that everyone talk as always about small things. It is my practice, like an experience’ waitress, serious and discreet, to be little in the dining room—only when serving, you understand.” The serious and discreet waitress eyed her interrogator with a look of bland superiority.
“Nothing struck you as unusual after dinner?”
“No, no.”
“You saw no one before you turned out the lights for the night?”
“Oh, yes, I have seen Mrs. Daniel Ives at that time, and she ask me whether Mrs. Ives have return, and I say no.”
“No one else?”
“Only the other domestics, monsieur. At a little past ten I retire’ for the night.”
“You went to sleep immediately?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Breakfast was just as usual the next morning?”
“As usual—yes.”
“At what time?”
“At nine, as on all Sundays. Mrs. Patrick Ives have hers at half-past nine, when she gets home from church.”
“Nothing unusual in that?”
“Oh, no; on the contrary, that is her habit.”
“And after breakfast, nothing unusual occurred?”
“I do not know whether you call it unusual, but after breakfast, yes, something occurred.”
“Just tell us what it was, please.”
Miss Cordier spent an interminable moment critically inspecting a pair of immaculate cream-coloured gloves before she decided to gratify this desire: “It was just so soon as Mr. Ives and his mother have finish’ breakfast, a few minutes before half-past nine. Mr. Ives he go directly to his study, and I go after him with the Sunday papers and before I go out I ask—because me, I am desirous to know—‘Mr. Ives, you have got that note all right what I put in the book?’ And he say—”
“Your Honour, I object! I object! What Mr. Ives said—”
This time there was no indecision whatever in the clamour set up by the long-suffering Lambert, and the prosecutor, eyeing him benevolently, raised a warning hand to his witness. “Never mind what he said, Miss Cordier. Just tell us what you said.”
“I said, after he spoke, ‘Oh, Mr. Ives, then if you have not got it, it is Mrs. Ives who have found it. She have seen me put it in the book while she stood there in the hall.’ ”
The prosecutor waited for a well-considered moment to permit this conveniently revelatory reply to sink in. “It was after this conversation with Mr. Ives that you decided you would no longer remain with Mrs. Ives?”
“No, monsieur, it was later in the morning that I decide that.”
“Something occurred that made you decide it then?”
Miss Cordier’s lacquer-red lips parted, closed, parted again. “Yes.”
“What, Miss Cordier?”
“At half-past eleven I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been killed.” The dark eyes slipped sidelong in the direction of the quiet young woman who had not so long since been her mistress. There she sat, leaning easily back in the straight, uncomfortable chair, ankles crossed, hands linked, studying the tips of her squarely cut little shoes with lowered eyes. The black eyes travelled from the edge of the kilted skirt to the edge of the small firm chin and then slid slowly back to the prosecutor: “When I heard that, I was not content, so I no longer stayed.”
“Exactly.” The prosecutor plunged his hands deep in his pockets and cocked a flagrantly triumphant eye at the agitated Lambert. “You no longer stayed. That will be all, Miss Cordier. Cross-examine.”
“Miss Cordier, you knew perfectly that if for one second it came to Mrs. Ives’s attention that you had been acting as go-between in the alleged correspondence between her husband and Mrs. Bellamy you would not have remained five minutes under her roof, did you not?”
Miss Cordier leaned a trifle farther over the edge of the witness box to meet the rough anger of Lambert’s voice, something ugly and insolent hardening the creamy mask of her face.
“I know that when Mrs. Ives is angered she is quick to speak, quick to act—yes, monsieur.”
At the fatal swiftness of that blow, the ruddy face before her sagged and paled, then rallied valiantly. “And so you decided that you had better leave before Mr. Ives questioned her about finding the note and you were turned out in disgrace, didn’t you?”
“I have
