Mr. Stacey very closely and critically examined a paper knife that had been lying on the table. Then, putting it down, he rejoined, without looking at Floyd-Rosney, who was scarcely in case to be seen, the veins of his forehead swollen and stiff, his face apoplectically red, his eyes hot and angry: “They can have her deposition taken in a foreign country.”
“If they can find her,” said Floyd-Rosney in prophetic triumph. “But they would not take the time for that.”
“Why, you don’t reflect,” said the lawyer very coolly, “the cause may not come to trial for two or three years. In view of the usual delays, continuances and the like, you could not expatriate her for that length of time.”
Floyd-Rosney’s face was a mask of stubborn conviction as he replied:
“The Ducies will want to race the matter through. They claim that they and their predecessors have been wrongfully kept out of their own for forty years. They will think that is long enough. I won’t make delays. The question is a legal one, and can be decided on the jump—yes or no. The case can come to trial at the April term of the court, and by that time Mrs. Floyd-Rosney will be in Jerusalem or Jericho.”
“This will damage your position in the case, Mr. Floyd-Rosney,” urged the lawyer. “I think, myself, that it is a particularly valuable point for you that it should be your wife, who, at considerable risk and in a very dramatic manner, discovered and secured these family jewels and papers, knowing what they were and that they threatened the title of her husband, and restored them to the complainants. It proves your good faith in your title—the foreclosure of the mortgage in ignorance of the outstanding release. Your wife as their witness is a valuable witness for us, and the motives of your contention being thus justified there remains nothing but the question of title to come before the court.”
“All that rigamarole can be proved by other witnesses,” said Floyd-Rosney doggedly. “There were twenty people who saw her come bouncing down the stairs with the box and give it to Adrian Ducie.”
There is a species of anger expressed in unbecoming phraseology. Mr. Stacey made no sign, but the words “rigamarole,” applied to his own lucid prelection, and “bouncing” to the gait of the very elegant Mrs. Floyd-Rosney, did not pass unnoted.
“I am sure the case on neither side can be ready for the April term,—the docket is crowded and there is always the possibility of continuances.”
“There are to be no continuances on our side,” declared Floyd-Rosney, both glum and stubborn; “I don’t choose that my wife shall testify in their interest. She goes to the Orient, and stays there till the testimony is all in and the case closed.”