I was anxious to have over with the real ordeal of the day, for I knew that I thus correctly characterized to myself Maillot's session in the witness-chair, and, if I was not much mistaken, whatever was to follow after he was through with his remarkable story. Correct as I was in a part of my assumption, everybody present was far from being prepared for the startling denouement.
Maillot began his account of Tuesday night's happenings in a straightforward way, and told it at length as convincingly as such an improbable story could be told at all. His injured eye was even worse discolored than it had been the previous day, and I—watching closely the half-dozen honest citizens with whom lay his immediate fate—observed that they noticed and commented upon it among themselves.
And my anticipations presently began to be realized. As the young man made plain the purpose of his errand to Mr. Page, as he again went over all the extraordinary particulars of his uncle producing the ruby and promising to give it to him to convey to Mr. Fluette, I saw the jurors exchange questioning glances with one another; and then, as the enmity and ill feeling between the two men became more and more apparent, the six faces gradually came to assume expressions of open incredulity.
If the young lawyer remarked the effect of his testimony, which he could scarcely help doing, the circumstance seemed not to dismay him in the least. But the worst was yet to come: plainly, whatever doubts may have lingered in the minds of the jury during this stage of his examination, they were definitely dispelled when the witness frankly admitted that according to the best of his belief he was Felix Page's sole heir.
But to me Maillot's testimony was scarcely more than a running accompaniment to Alfred Fluette's strange behavior. It was impossible to interpret the seething conflict of thought and emotion which his haggard visage hid only indifferently; he stared at the young man, fascinated; but dominating every influence, gripping his very heart and biting like acid, I could discern the evidence of a horror which must inevitably drive him, sooner or later, to some violent outburst. It was manifestly more than human nature could endure.
Why?—I asked myself—why? Why should he be so profoundly stirred by the experience of one against whom he entertained such a strong antipathy? And so promptly that it took me by surprise, he supplied the potential answer to my unspoken question.
With a sudden movement, as if to sit longer inactive had become an unendurable torment, he stood upright, flung off his heavy overcoat and then whipped off his gloves.
On the middle finger of his right hand gleamed a broad band of gold!
I glanced at the sweet, concerned face of Genevieve Cooper. From the intentness with which she hung upon my every action and change of expression, I knew that she was trying to plumb the farther depths and learn the trend of the hidden currents of this drama, which was of such vital moment to her. I was glad that I could still offer her the encouragement of a smile.
My attention was directed to Maillot when one of the jurors began interrogating him.