The whitewashed walls of the cold corridor did not look more stonily at Peace than did the face of the woman whom he tried to claim as his former paramour.
The absence of spectators was a relief to her, and she stood quietly and without apparent weariness during her long and trying cross-examination.
Mr. Clegg did the best he could for his client, but refused to take any notice of the low mutterings or loud protests of the prisoner.
The stipendiary refused to let the letters be read aloud, but the most exciting passages were given. These documents are a series of comparatively dull communications written on old envelopes and dirty scraps of paper.
Here is a specimen: “How well you never told that man I looked at you out of the window you left me to find out for myself and would not put me on my guard, as I do you. Hope you won’t do it again. Don’t talk to little Willie much, or give him any halfpennies. Don’t be a fool; it looks as if you want people to know the way and—”
A blank occurs here, and the remaining portion of the letter now legible says: “If you are not more careful we will have to say quits. I have told you not to say anything until—”
On the theory of the defence the Willie referred to is Mrs. Dyson’s son, aged seven and William Henry by name. (Mrs. Dyson’s reply to every question was a decided repudiation of the suggestion that the letters had been written by her.)
At these repudiations the convict affected to be savagely indignant. Also when Mrs. Dyson said the portrait had been stolen from her room he muttered between his clenched teeth—
“Stolen—stolen—stolen!”
He glared towards the witness with a tragic air, and then buried his head in his arms, which were stretched on the table.