In the hushed silence that followed his voice, all eyes turned to the twelve who sat there unmoving, their drawn, pale faces, tired-eyed and tight-lipped, turned toward the merciless flame that burned behind the prosecutor’s white face.
The redheaded girl asked in a desolate small voice that sounded very far away, “Is it all over now? Are they going now?”
“No—wait a moment; there’s the judge’s charge. Here, what’s Lambert doing?”
He was on his feet, swaying a little, his voice barely audible.
“Your Honour, a note has been handed to me this moment. It is written on the card of the principal of the Eastern High School, Mr. Randolph Phipps.”
“What are the contents of this note?”
Lambert settled his glasses on his nose with a shaken hand. “It says—it says:
“My dear Mr. Lambert:
“Before this case goes to the jury, I consider it my duty to lay before them some knowledge of the most vital importance that is my possession, and that for personal reasons I have withheld up to the present time, in the hope that events would render it unnecessary for me to take the stand. Such has unfortunately not been the case, and I therefore put myself at your disposal. Will you tell me what my next step should be? The facts are such as make it imperative that I should be permitted to speak.
Judge Carver said slowly, “May I see the note?” Lambert handed it up in those shaking fingers. “Thank you. A most extraordinary performance,” commented the judge dispassionately. After a moment he said more dispassionately still:
“The Court was about to adjourn in any case until tomorrow morning. It does not care to deliver its charge to the jury at this late hour of the day, and we will therefore convene again at ten tomorrow. In the meantime the Court will take the note under advisement. See that Mr. Phipps is present in the morning. Court is dismissed.”
“I don’t believe that I’ll be here in the morning,” said the redheaded girl in that same small monotone.
“Not be here?” The reporter’s voice was a howl of incredulity. “Not be here, you little idiot? Did you hear what Lambert read off that card?”
“I don’t think that I’ll live till morning,” said the redheaded girl.
The seventh day of the Bellamy trial was over.
VIII
The redheaded girl had not realized how tired she was until she heard Ben Potts’s voice. He stood there as straight as ever, but where were the clear bugle tones that summoned the good burghers of Redfield morning after morning? A faint, a lamentable, echo of his impressive “Hear ye! Hear ye!” rang out feebly, and the redheaded girl slumped back dispiritedly in her chair, consumed with fatigue as with a fever.
“Sleep well?” inquired the reporter with amiable anxiety.
The redheaded girl turned on him eyes heavy with scorn. “Sleep?” she repeated acidly. “What’s that?”
Judge Carver looked as weary as Ben Potts sounded, and the indefatigable Mr. Farr looked blanched and bitten to the bone with something deeper than fatigue. Only Mr. Lambert looked haler and heartier than he had for several interminable days; and the faces of Stephen Bellamy and Susan Ives were as pale, as controlled, and as tranquil as ever.
Judge Carver let his gavel fall heavily. “The Court has given careful consideration as to the advisability of admitting the evidence in question last night, and has decided that it may be admitted. Mr. Lambert!” Mr. Lambert bounded joyfully forward. “Is the Court correct in understanding that Mr. Phipps is your witness?”
“Quite correct, Your Honour.”
“Let him be called.”
“Mr. Randolph Phipps!”
The principal of Eastern High School was a tall man; there was dignity in the way he held his head and moved his long, loose limbs, but all the dignity in the world could not still the nervous tremor of his hands or school the too sensitive mouth to rigidity. Under straight, heavy brows, the eyes of a dreamer startled from deep sleep looked out in amazement at a strange world; the sweep of dark hair above the wide brow came perilously close to being Byronic; only the height of his cheek bones and the width of his mouth saved him from suggesting a matinée idol of some previous era. He might have been thirty-five, or forty, or forty-five. His eyes were eighteen.
“Mr. Phipps, it is the understanding of this court that you have a communication to make of peculiar importance. You understand that in making that statement you will, of course, be subject to the usual course of direct and cross-examination?”
“I understand that—yes.”
“Very well. You may proceed with the examination, Mr. Lambert.”
“Mr. Phipps, where were you on the night of the nineteenth of June?”
“On the night of the nineteenth of June,” said Mr. Phipps, in the clear, carrying voice of one not unaccustomed to public speaking, “I spent about three hours on the Thorne estate at Orchards. Some things occurred during that time that I feel it my duty to make known to the jury in this case.”
“What were you doing on the Thorne place?”
“I suppose that I was doing what is technically known as trespassing. It did not occur to me at the time that it was a very serious offense, as I knew the place to be uninhabited—still, I suppose that I was perfectly aware that I had no business there.”
“You had no especial purpose in going there?”
“Oh, yes; I went there because I had selected it as a pleasant place for a picnic supper.”
“You were alone?”
“No—no, I was not alone.” Mr. Phipps suddenly looked forty-five and very tired.
“Other people were accompanying you on this—this excursion?”
“One other person.”
“Who was
