“Could you see the speakers, Mr. Phipps?”
“No; not until they were getting into the car. I was at this time standing just around the corner of the house, and so could not see the porch.”
“Could you distinguish what they were saying?”
“Not at first; they were both speaking together, and it was very confusing. It wasn’t until they appeared again in the circle of the automobile lights that I actually distinguished anything more than a few fragmentary words. Mr. Bellamy had his hand on Mrs. Ives’s wrist and he was saying—”
Mr. Farr was on his feet, but much of the tiger had gone out of his spring. “Does the Court hold that what this witness claims that he heard one person say to another person is admissible evidence?”
“Of course it is admissible evidence!” Lambert’s voice was frantic with anxiety. “Words spoken on the scene of the crime, within a few minutes of the crime—What about the rule of res gestae?”
Mr. Farr made an unpleasant little noise. “A few minutes? That’s what you call three quarters of an hour? When ejaculations made within two minutes have been ruled out after res gestae has been invoked?”
“It has been interpreted to admit whole sentences at a much—”
“Gentlemen”—Judge Carver’s gavel fell with an imperious crash—“you will be good enough to address the Court. Am I correct in understanding that what you desire is a ruling on the admissibility of this evidence, Mr. Farr?”
“That is all that I have requested, Your Honour.”
“Very well. In view of the gravity of this situation and the very unusual character of the testimony, the Court desires to show as great a latitude as possible in respect to this evidence. It therefore rules that it may be admitted. Is there any objection?”
“No objection,” said Mr. Farr, with commendable promptness, rallying a voice that sounded curiously flat. “It has been the object—and the sole object—of the state throughout this case to get at the truth. It is entirely willing to waive technicalities wherever possible in order that that end may be obtained. … No objection.”
“You may proceed, Mr. Phipps.”
“Mr. Bellamy was saying, ‘It makes no difference how innocent we are. If it were ever known that we were in that room tonight, you couldn’t get one person in the world to believe that we weren’t guilty, much less twelve. I’ve got to get you home. Get into the car.’ And they got into the car and drove off.”
“And then, Mr. Phipps?”
“And then, sir, I said to Miss Dunne, ‘Sally, that sounds like the voice of prophecy to me. If no one would believe that they were innocent, no one would believe that we are. Never mind the lunch box; I’m going to get you home too.’ ”
“You were aware that a murder had been committed?”
“A murder? Oh, not for one moment!” The quiet voice was suddenly vehement in its protest. “Not for one single moment! I thought simply that for some inexplicable reason Mr. Bellamy and Mrs. Ives had been almost suicidally indiscreet and had fortunately become aware of it at the last moment. It brought my own most culpable indiscretion all too vividly home to me, and I therefore proceeded to escort Miss Dunne back to her home, where I left her.”
“Yes—exactly. Now, Mr. Phipps, just one or two questions more. On your first visit to the cottage, when you heard the woman’s voice cry, ‘Don’t dare to touch me,’ both the front and the rear of the cottage were under your observation, were they not?”
“At different times—yes.”
“Would it have been possible for an automobile to be at any spot near the cottage while you were there without your attention being drawn to the fact?”
“It would have been absolutely impossible.”
“It could not have stood there without your seeing it?”
“Not possibly.”
“Nor have left without your hearing it?”
“Not possibly.”
“Did you hear or see such a car on that visit to the cottage, Mr. Phipps?”
“I saw no car and heard none.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phipps; that will be all.”
“Well, not quite all,” said Mr. Farr gently. Mr. Phipps shifted in his chair, his eyes under their dark brows luminous with apprehension. “Mr. Phipps, at what time did you reach your home on the night of the nineteenth of June?”
“I did not return to my home. It was closed, as my family—my wife and my two little girls—were staying at a little place on the Jersey coast called Blue Bay. I had taken a room at the Y.M.C.A.”
“At what time did you return to the Y.M.C.A.?”
“I did not return there,” said Mr. Phipps, in a voice so low that it was barely audible.
“You did not return to the Y.M.C.A.?”
“No. By the time that I had left Miss Dunne at her home I decided that it was too late to return to the Y.M.C.A. without rendering myself extremely conspicuous, and as I was not in the least sleepy, I decided that I would take a good walk, get a bite to eat at one of the handout places in the vicinity of the station, and catch the first train—the four-forty-five—to New York, where I could get a boat to Blue Bay and spend Sunday with my family.”
“You mean that you did not intend to go to bed at all?”
“I did not.”
“And you carried out this plan?”
“I did.”
“What time did you leave Miss Dunne at her home, Mr. Phipps?”
“At about quarter to one.”
“What time did you start from the Orchards for home?”
“We started from the lodge gates at