“Well, you’re a fine one,” said the reporter in tones that belied the statement. He removed an overcoat, a woolly scarf, a portable typewriter, seven tabloid newspapers, and a gray felt hat from the seat next to him and waited virtuously for appropriate expressions of gratitude. None were forthcoming. The redheaded girl scrambled unceremoniously over his feet, sank into the seat, and abandoned herself to a series of minute but audible pants varied by an occasional subdued sniff.
“What in the world—” began the reporter.
“Don’t speak to me!” said the redheaded girl in a small fierce voice, and added even more fiercely: “What’s happened?”
“That’s what I want to know!” remarked the reporter with some emphasis. “What in the world was that perfectly ungodly racket going on outside in the hall?”
“Me,” said the redheaded girl. “Who’s been on the stand?”
“You? For the Lord’s sake, what were you doing?”
“Screaming,” said the redheaded girl. “Who’s been on the stand?”
“Just a guy from a prison out West to prove that Orsini had served a jail sentence for robbery. What were you screaming about?”
“Because they wouldn’t let me in. … Who’s on now?”
“That redheaded fellow, Leo Fox, from the gas station. He’s through with his direct, and Farr has him now. … Why wouldn’t they let you in?”
“Because—No, I can’t tell you all that now. Later—at lunch. Listen, won’t you—”
“It was Saturday night, wasn’t it, Mr. Fox?”
“Sure it was Saturday night.”
Mr. Fox, who was lavishly decorated with freckles, whose coat was about three inches too tight for him, and whose tie was about three shades too green, shifted his chewing gum dexterously to the other cheek and kept a wary eye on Mr. Farr.
“There were a good many cars getting gas at your station on fine Saturday nights in June, weren’t there?”
“Sure there were.”
“Yet this car and its occupants are indelibly stamped on your memory?”
“If you mean do I remember the both of them, sure I do. They wasn’t just getting gas; the dame—the lady—she wanted a drink of water, and it was me who got it for her. That was what made me remember them, see?”
“And all you know is that it was some time after nine, because you didn’t come on duty until nine?”
“That’s right. I don’t never come on until then; and sometimes I’m a couple of minutes late, at that.”
“But it might have been two minutes past nine instead of twenty-five minutes past, as Mrs. Ives claims?”
“No, sir, it couldn’t have been nothing of the kind. People don’t get eight gallons of gas, and pay for it, and get change, and ask for glasses of water and get them, and drink them and get away all in two minutes. It must have been more than ten minutes past, no matter if they were the first ones to come along after I checked in.”
Mr. Farr contemplated him with marked disfavour. “I didn’t ask you for a speech, Mr. Fox. The only fact you are able to state to us positively as to the time is that you came on duty at nine o’clock, and that Mrs. Ives and Mr. Bellamy appeared after you had arrived.”
“That’s right.”
“Then that will be all. You may stand down.”
“Call Mr. Patrick Ives,” said Mr. Lambert.
“Mr. Patrick Ives!”
From the corner by the window where he had sat, hour after hour and day after day, with his mother’s small gloved hand resting lightly and reassuringly on his knee, Patrick Ives rose and moved slowly forward toward the witness box.
How tall he was, thought the redheaded girl—how tall and young, for all the haggard misery and bitterness of that white and reckless face. He stood staring about him for a moment, his black head towering inches above those about him; then, with one swift stride, he was in his place.
“Mr. Ives, will you be good enough to tell us as concisely as possible just what happened on the night of , from the time that you arrived at your home to the time that you retired for the night?”
“Oh,” said Patrick Ives indifferently, “I doubt whether I could do anything along that line at all. I have a notoriously bad memory, and I’d simply be faking a lot of stuff that wouldn’t do either of us any good. Besides, most of that ground has been gone over by other witnesses, hasn’t it?”
The casual insolence of the conversational tone had had the effect of literally hypnotizing Mr. Lambert, Mr. Farr, and the redoubtable Carver himself into a state of stupefied inaction. As the voice ceased, however, all three emerged from coma into violent energy. It was difficult to tell which of the three was the more profoundly moved, though Mr. Lambert’s protestations were the most piercing. Fortified by his gavel, however, Judge Carver managed to batter the rest into silence.
“Let that answer be stricken from the record! It is totally improper, Mr. Ives. This is not a debating society. You will kindly refrain from expressing your opinions on any subject whatsoever, and will confine yourself to the briefest replies possible.”
“If Mr. Lambert will put a definite question to me I’ll see whether I can give him a definite answer,” replied Mr. Ives, looking entirely unchastened and remotely diverted.
“Very well,” said Lambert, choking with ill-concealed wrath. “Will you be so kind as to tell us whether anything out of the ordinary occurred during that evening, Mr. Ives?”
“No.”
“Before dinner?”
“No.”
“After dinner?”
“No.”
Mr. Ives flung him the monosyllables like so many very bare bones tossed at a large, hungry, snapping dog.
“Miss Page testified that she met you at the nursery door with a ship model in your hand at about eight o’clock. Is
