Tarleton prudently refrained from asking his witness anything about her own proceedings. It looked to me as though she must have placed herself in the hands of a private inquiry agent, but if so it was evident that she had insisted on going with him on the trail.
“Didn’t that seem as if they were friends?” was the next question.
“No!” The denial was emphatic. “He was making love to her, anyone could see that, but she was resisting him. You could see that she hated him.”
“And yet she went about with him.”
“It was against her will, I am certain of it. She had the air of a prisoner.”
Poor, unhappy Violet! It was hard work to control myself as I listened, and pictured her sitting in that doubtful resort, tormented by the vile wooing of the monster who had her in his power, while her jealous rival, with a hired spy in attendance, gloated over her distress.
The merciless accuser went on.
“That night they dined together. I saw him try to slip a bracelet on to her wrist. She snatched her hand away so fiercely that it fell on the floor, and he dropped his napkin over it so as to pick it up without the waiter seeing.”
The scene was as vividly before me as though it was passing on the screen. The eyes of jealousy had been sharper than the waiter’s.
“Well, let us come to yesterday night. We knew before you told us that one of the dancers wore the dress you have described. What makes you so confident that she was Lady Violet?”