Clifton frowned. We were quite alone. Leaning forward, he touched my arm.
“Elwood,” said he, “you’ve not been quite open with me.”
I smiled. If half the bitterness and sorrow in my heart went into that smile, it must have been a sad and bitter one indeed.
“You have a right to reproach me,” said I, “but not wholly. I did not deceive you in essentials. You may still believe me as guiltless of Adelaide’s violent death as a man can be who drove her and hers into misery which death alone could end.”
“I will believe it,” he muttered, “I must.” And he dropped the subject, as he made me see, forever.
I drew a deep breath of relief. I had come very near to revealing my secret.
When we returned to the court-room, we found it already packed with a very subdued and breathless crowd. It differed somewhat from the one which had faced us in the morning; but Ella and her parents were there and many others of the acknowledged friends of the accused and of his family.
He, himself, wore the heavy and dogged air which became him least. Physically refreshed, he carried himself boldly, but it was a boldness which convinced me that any talk he may have had with his lawyer, had been no more productive of comfort than the one I had held with mine.
As he took the witness chair, and prepared to meet the cross-examination of the district attorney, a solemn hush settled upon the room. Would the coming ordeal rob his brow of its present effrontery, or would he continue to bear himself with the same surly dignity, which, misunderstood as it was, produced its own effect, and at certain moments seemed to shake even the confidence of Mr. Fox, settled as he seemed to be in his belief in the integrity of his cause and the rights of the prosecution.
Shaken or not, his attack was stern, swift, and to the point.