“Miss Dare, did you express any anger yourself at the refusal of Mrs. Clemmens to assist the prisoner by lending him such moneys as he required?”
“Yes, sir; I fear I did. It seemed unreasonable to me then, and I was very anxious he should have that opportunity to make fame and fortune which I thought his genius merited.”
“Miss Dare,” inquired the District Attorney, calling to his aid such words as he had heard from old Sally in reference to this interview, “did you make use of any such expression as this: ‘I wish I knew Mrs. Clemmens’?”
“I believe I did.”
“And did this mean you had no acquaintance with the murdered woman at that time?” pursued Mr. Ferris, half-turning to the prisoner’s counsel, as if he anticipated the objection which that gentleman might very properly make to a question concerning the intention of a witness.
And Mr. Orcutt, yielding to professional instinct, did indeed make a slight movement as if to rise, but became instantly motionless. Nothing could be more painful to him than to wrangle before the crowded courtroom over these dealings between the woman he loved and the man he was now defending.
Mr. Ferris turned back to the witness and awaited her answer. It came without hesitation.
“It meant that, sir.”
“And what did the prisoner say when you gave utterance to this wish?”
“He asked me why I desired to know her.”
“And what did you reply?”
“That if I knew her I might be able to persuade her to listen to his request.”
“And what answer had he for this?”
“None but a quick shake of his head.”
“Miss Dare; up to the time of this interview had you ever received any gift from the prisoner—jewelry, for instance—say, a ring!”
“No, sir.”
“Did he offer you such a gift then?”
“He did.”
“What was it?”
“A gold ring set with a diamond.”
“Did you receive it?”
“No, sir. I felt that in taking a ring from him I would be giving an irrevocable promise, and I was not ready to do that.”
“Did you allow him to put it on your finger?”
“I did.”
“And it remained there?” suggested Mr. Ferris, with a smile.
“A minute, may be.”
“Which of you, then, took it off?”
“I did.”
“And what did you say when you took it off?”
“I do not remember my words.”
Again recalling old Sally’s account of this interview, Mr. Ferris asked:
“Were they these: ‘I cannot. Wait till tomorrow’?”
“Yes, I believe they were.”
“And when he inquired: ‘Why tomorrow?’ did you reply: ‘A night has been known to change the whole current of one’s affairs’?”
“I did.”
“Miss Dare, what did you mean by those words?”
“I object!” cried Mr. Orcutt, rising. Unseen by any save himself, the prisoner had made him an eloquent gesture, slight, but peremptory.
“I think it is one I have a right to ask,” urged the District Attorney.
But Mr. Orcutt, who manifestly had the best of the argument, maintained his objection, and the Court instantly ruled in his favor.
Mr. Ferris prepared to modify his question. But before he could speak the voice of Miss Dare was heard.
“Gentlemen,” said she, “there was no need of all this talk. I intended to seek an interview with Mrs. Clemmens and try what the effect would be of confiding to her my interest in her nephew.”
The dignified simplicity with which she spoke, and the air of quiet candor that for that one moment surrounded her, gave to this voluntary explanation an unexpected force that carried it quite home to the hearts of the jury. Even Mr. Orcutt could not preserve the frown with which he had confronted her at the first movement of her lips, but turned toward the prisoner with a look almost congratulatory in its character. But Mr. Byrd, who for reasons of his own kept his eyes upon that prisoner, observed that it met with no other return than that shadow of a bitter smile which now and then visited his otherwise unmoved countenance.
Mr. Ferris, who, in his friendship for the witness, was secretly rejoiced in an explanation which separated her from the crime of her lover, bowed in acknowledgment of the answer she had been pleased to give him in face of the ruling of the Court, and calmly proceeded:
“And what reply did the prisoner make you when you uttered this remark in reference to the change that a single day sometimes makes in one’s affairs?”
“Something in the way of assent.”
“Cannot you give us his words?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, can you tell us whether or not he looked thoughtful when you said this?”
“He may have done so, sir.”
“Did it strike you at the time that he reflected on what you said?”
“I cannot say how it struck me at the time.”
“Did he look at you a few minutes before speaking, or in any way conduct himself as if he had been set thinking?”
“He did not speak for a few minutes.”
“And looked at you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The District Attorney paused a moment as if to let the results of his examination sink into the minds of the jury; then he went on:
“Miss Dare, you say you returned the ring to the prisoner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You say positively the ring passed from you to him; that you saw it in his hand after it had left yours?”
“No, sir. The ring passed from me to him, but I did not see it in his hand, because I did not return it to him that way. I dropped it into his pocket.”
At this acknowledgment, which made both the prisoner and his counsel look up, Mr. Byrd felt himself nudged by Hickory.
“Did you hear that?” he whispered.
“Yes,” returned the other.
“And do you believe it?”
“Miss Dare is on oath,” was the reply.
“Pooh!” was Hickory’s whispered exclamation.
The District Attorney alone showed no surprise.
“You dropped it into his pocket?” he resumed. “How came you to do that?”
“I was weary of the strife which had followed my refusal to accept this token. He would not take it from me
