“They will, doubtless, call Mrs. Floyd-Rosney.”
The client went pale for a moment, then his face turned a deep purplish red. Twice he sought to speak before he could enunciate a word.
“Mrs. Floyd-Rosney,” he sputtered at length. “As their witness? It is monstrous! I will not suffer it! It is monstrous!”
“Oh, no; not at all.”
Mr. Stacey had a colorless, clear-cut face of the thin, hatchet-like type. His straight hair, originally of some blonde hue, had worn sparse, and neither showed the tint of youth nor demanded the respect due to the bleach of age. It seemed wasted out. He was immaculately groomed and was very spare; he looked, somehow, as if in due process of law he had been ground very sharp, and had lost all extraneous particles. There seemed nothing of Mr. Stacey but a legal machine, very cleverly invented, and, as he sat in his swivel chair, his thin legs crossed, he turned a bit from his desk, intently regarding Mr. Floyd-Rosney, who was thrown back in a cushioned armchair beside him, flanked by the great waste-paper basket, containing the off-scourings of the lawyer’s desk. Mr. Stacey’s light gray eyes narrowed as he gazed,—he was beginning to see into the dark purlieus of his client’s reasonless conduct.
“Mrs. Floyd-Rosney is perfectly competent to testify in the case.” Mr. Stacey wore a specially glittering set of false teeth which made no pretense to nature, but gave effect to his clear-clipped enunciation. “Her deposition will certainly be taken by them.”
“As against her husband?” foamed Floyd-Rosney in vehement argument. “She can be introduced by her husband to testify in his behalf, but not against him, except in her own interest, as you know right well.”
“That incompetency is limited to the Mississippi law as regards third persons, in the case of husband and wife. But in the proceedings in reference to the Tennessee property the local statutes will obtain,—she can testify against her husband’s interest and, in my opinion, will be constrained to do this.” After this succinct, dispassionate statement Mr. Stacey paused for a moment; then, in response to Floyd-Rosney’s stultified bovine stare, as in speechless amazement, he went on with a tang of impatience in his tone. “Why, you know, of course, there is a bit of Tennessee property involved,—that small business house in South Memphis,—I forget, for the moment, the name of the street. You are aware that in the foreclosure proceedings nearly forty years ago the plantation and mansion house of Duciehurst were bid in for the estate of the mortgagee, but as the amount of the highest bid at the sale did not equal the indebtedness in the shrunken condition of real estate values at that time, the executors pursued and subjected other property of the mortgagor for the balance due, this Tennessee holding being a part of it, and the Ducies now contend that the debt having been previously fully satisfied and paid in full, this whole proceeding was null and void from the beginning. They bring suit for all in sight. Mrs. Floyd-Rosney can testify in their interest under the Tennessee statutes.”
Floyd-Rosney sprang up and strode across the room, coming flush against the waste-paper basket as he threw himself once more into his chair, overturning the papers and scattering them about the floor. He took no notice of them, but the tidy Stacey glanced down at the litter, though with an inscrutable eye.
“Oh, I’ll get her out of the country. They shall not have her testimony. They shall not call her as their witness. She has been wanting a trip to the Orient—she shall go—at once—at once!”