“Do you not consider that when a man’s wife has betrayed him, his honour is involved and should be avenged?”
“I believe nothing of the kind. My honour is involved only by my own actions, not by those of others.”
“You would have let her go to her lover with your blessing?”
Something flared in the dark eyes turned to the prosecutor’s mocking blue ones, and died. “I did not say that,” said Stephen Bellamy evenly.
Judge Carver leaned forward abruptly, “Mr. Bellamy is entirely correct,” he said sternly. “He said nothing of the kind.”
“I regret that I seem to have misunderstood him,” said the prosecutor with ominous meekness.
“You would have prevented her?”
“I would have begged her to try to find happiness with me.”
“And if that had not succeeded, you would have prevented her?”
“How could I have prevented her?”
The prosecutor took a step forward and lowered his voice to that strange pitch that carried farther than a battle cry. “Quite simply, Mr. Bellamy. As simply as the person who drove that knife to Madeleine Bellamy’s heart prevented her joining her lover—as simply as that.”
Judge Carver’s gavel fell with a crash. “Let that remark be stricken from the record!”
Stephen Bellamy’s head jerked back, and from somewhere an arm flashed out to catch him. He motioned it away, steadying himself carefully with an iron grip on the witness box. His eyes, the only things alive in his frozen face, met his enemy’s unswervingly.
“I did not drive that knife to her heart.” His voice was as ominously distinct as the prosecutor’s.
“But you did not raise a hand to prevent it from striking?”
“I could not raise a hand—I was not there.”
“You did not raise a hand?”
“Your Honour!”
Bellamy’s eyes swung steadily to the clamorous and distracted Lambert. “Please—I’d rather answer. I have told you already that I was not there, Mr. Farr. If I had been I would have given my life—gladly, believe me—to have prevented what happened.”
Farr turned a hotly incredulous countenance to Judge Carver’s impassive one. “Your Honour, I ask to have that stricken from the record as deliberately unresponsive.”
“It is not strictly responsive,” conceded His Honour dispassionately. “However, the Court feels that you had already received a responsive answer, so were apparently pressing for an elaboration. It may remain.”
“I defer to Your Honour’s opinion,” said Mr. Farr in a tone so far from deferential that His Honour regarded him somewhat fixedly. “Mr. Bellamy, what reason did Mrs. Ives give you for believing that Mr. Ives was at home?”
“She did not give me a reason; she gave me her word of honour.”
“You did not press her for one?”
“No; I considered her word better than any assurance that she—”
“Your Honour, I have repeatedly requested the witness to confine himself to yes and no. I ask with all deference to have the Court add its instructions to that effect.”
“Confine yourself to a direct answer whenever possible, Mr. Bellamy. You are not permitted to enter into explanations.”
“Very well, Your Honour.”
“Nothing was said about an intercepted note, Mr. Bellamy?”
“No.”
“You were perfectly satisfied that she had some mysterious way of ascertaining that he had not gone out at all that evening?”
“Yes.”
“But at some time during the evening that assurance on your part evaporated?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“I’ll be clearer. By the time you reached Mrs. Ives’s home—I believe that you’ve told us that that was at about ten-thirty—your confidence in her infallibility had so diminished that you suggested that she signal to you if Mr. Ives were actually there?”
“I believe that that was her suggestion.”
“Her suggestion? After she had given you her word of honour that he was there?”
“Yes.”
“You wish that to be your final statement on that subject?”
“Wait a moment.” He looked suddenly exhausted, as though he had been running for a long time. “I told you that things were very confused from the time that I found that Mimi hadn’t gone to the movies. I’m trying to get it as straight as possible. It was some time after we had left my house—after ten, I mean—and before we got to hers, that I suggested there was just a chance that she was mistaken and that Pat had gone to meet her after all. Sue said she couldn’t be mistaken, and that, anyway, they’d never dare stay at the cottage so late—it wouldn’t fit in with the movie story. I suggested then that possibly she had been right in her idea that they had been planning to run away together. Possibly that was what they had done tonight. She said, ‘Steve, you sound as though you wish they had.’ I said, ‘I wish to God they had.’ Then she said, ‘I know that Pat hasn’t been out, but I’ll let you know definitely when we go home.’ It was then that she suggested the lights.”
“It all comes back very clearly now, doesn’t it, Mr. Bellamy?”
“Yes.”
“Very convenient, remembering all those noble bits about how you wished to God that they’d eloped, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know that it’s particularly noble or convenient. It’s the truth.”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Mr. Bellamy, at what time—”
“Your Honour, I protest these sneers and jeers that Mr. Farr is indulging in constantly. I—”
“I simply remarked that Mr. Bellamy was undoubtedly telling the truth,” said Mr. Farr in dangerously meek tones. “Do you regard that as necessarily sarcastic?”
“I regard your tone as sheerly outrageous. I protest—”
“It might be just as well to make no comments on the witness’s replies, of either a flattering or an unflattering nature,” remarked Judge Carver drily. “Is there a question before the witness?”
“No, Your Honour. I was not permitted to complete my question.”
“It may be completed.” There was a hint of acerbity in the fine voice.
“Mr. Bellamy, at what time, after you left Mrs. Ives at her house, did you return to your own?”
“I don’t know.” The voice was weary to the point of indifference.
“You don’t know?”
“No; the whole thing’s like a nightmare. Time doesn’t mean much in a nightmare.”
“Well, did this nightmare condition permit you to ascertain whether it was after twelve?”
“I believe that it
