“Yes.”
“When did you see her again?”
“About a quarter of an hour later.”
“Was her testimony as to what followed correct?”
“Oh, it was correct enough as far as it went.”
“It went further than she told us?”
“Considerably,” said Mr. Ives, a grimly reminiscent smile flitting across his haggard young face.
“In what direction?”
“In the direction of violent hysterics and general lunacy,” said Mr. Ives unfeelingly.
“What was the cause of these—er—manifestations?”
“Miss Page,” said Mr. Ives with great clarity and precision, “is a high-strung, unbalanced, hysterical little idiot Mrs. Ives had—”
“Does Your Honour consider that a responsive reply?” inquired Mr. Farr with mild interest.
“The Court has already warned the witness to keep strictly to the question. It repeats that warning. As for the reply, it may be stricken from the record.”
“I consider it an absolutely responsive reply,” cried Mr. Lambert with some heat. “Mr. Ives was explaining why Miss Page—”
“You may take your exception and put the question again, Mr. Lambert. The Court has ruled on the reply.”
“What caused the hysteria you speak of?” inquired Mr. Lambert through gritted teeth.
“The fact that Mrs. Ives had told her that her services were no longer required, and that she had better make her preparations to leave on Monday. Miss Page wished me to intervene in her behalf, as I had already done on two occasions.”
“Did you acquiesce?”
“On the contrary,” said Pat Ives—and at the tone of chilled steel in his voice the redheaded girl felt a flash of something like pity for her pet detestation, the flower-faced Miss Page—“I told her that in my opinion Sunday was a better day than Monday, and that I’d send Roberts to help with the packing.”
“Why was Miss Page so anxious to stay, Mr. Ives?”
“How should I know?” inquired Mr. Ives. “She probably realized that it was a very excellent job that she was losing.”
“That is the only explanation that occurs to you?”
“It is the only explanation that it occurs to me to give you,” said Mr. Ives gently, a small, dangerous smile playing about the corner of his mouth.
Mr. Lambert eyed him indecisively for a moment, and prudently decided on another tack. “Did that conclude your conversation?”
“Oh, no,” replied Mr. Ives, the smile deepening. “That started it.”
“Will you give us the rest of it, please?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. As I told you, I have a bad memory. If it doesn’t betray me, however, I believe that it was largely an elaboration of the two original themes.”
“What themes?”
“The themes of her departure and my intervention.”
“Miss Page said nothing about a note?”
“A note?” There was a look of genuine surprise in the lifted brows.
“She did not mention having intercepted a note from Mrs. Stephen Bellamy—having abstracted it from a book in the library?”
“I see,” said Mr. Ives, the brows relaxing, the smile returning, a little deeper and more dangerous. “No, I don’t believe that she mentioned that. It would probably have made an impression on me if she had.”
“Had you any reason to believe that Miss Page was jealous of Mrs. Bellamy, Mr. Ives?”
“Jealous of Mrs. Bellamy? Why should Miss Page have been jealous of Mrs. Bellamy?”
“I thought that possibly you might be able to tell us.”
“You were in error,” said Mr. Ives, leaning a little forward in his chair. “I am totally unable to tell you.”
He did not lift his voice, but Mr. Lambert moved back a step somewhat precipitately.
“Yes—exactly. Now, Mr. Ives, Melanie Cordier has testified that you told her that you had not found the note she claims to have placed there. Was that correct?”
“That is what I told her, certainly.”
“And it was an accurate statement on your part?”
Mr. Farr rose leisurely to his feet. “Just one moment, please. I’m becoming a little confused from time to time as to whether this is direct or cross-examination. It looks as though Mr. Lambert were going to leave me very little to do. Possibly I’m in error, but it certainly sounds to me as though he were impeaching the veracity of his own witness.”
“The Court is inclined to agree with you. Do you object to the question?”
“I don’t particularly object to the question, but it strikes me as totally out of place.”
“Very well. You need not reply to that question, Mr. Ives.”
“Thanks—with Your Honour’s permission, I prefer to. I’m sure that Mr. Lambert will be glad to know that my reply to Melanie Cordier was entirely accurate.”
“How many of these notes had you received previously?” inquired Mr. Lambert, and the expression that inflamed his countenance was not one of gratitude.
“Six or eight, possibly.”
“Over what period?”
“Over a period of about two months.”
“Are you aware that Miss Cordier testified that she had placed possibly twenty there over a much more extended period?”
“Well, if she testified that,” said Patrick Ives indifferently, “she lied.”
“What was the tenor of these notes?”
“They were largely suggesting appointments at the cottage.”
“How often were these appointments carried through?”
“Twice.”
“Only twice?”
At the flat incredulity of Lambert’s face something flared in Patrick Ives’s heavy blue eyes.
“Twice, I said—twice.”
“Will you give us the dates?”
“I’m afraid I can’t—once in the latter part of , again about a week before the murder. That’s about the best that I can do.”
“Mr. Ives, there has been some talk here of this knife, State Exhibit 6. Miss Page has identified it as belonging to you. Is that correct?”
“Quite.”
“Will you tell us when you last saw it?”
“The last time that I remember seeing it before it was produced here in court was on the afternoon of my wife’s arrest—Monday the twenty-first.”
“Have you any idea where it was on the night of at half-past nine?”
“I have a very definite and distinct idea,” said Patrick Ives, and for the first time since he had mounted the stand the haggard restlessness of his face relaxed to something curiously approaching gaiety. “It was in my right-hand trousers pocket.”
Mr. Lambert’s exultant countenance was turned squarely to the jury. “How did it come to be there?”
“It was there because that’s where I stuck it when I took the boat upstairs to Pete
