Armstrong did not change countenance. He rested his gaze calmly on the lawyer. "Where did you dine last night, Mr. Drew?" he asked.
"This is the most impertinent performance I was ever the amused victim of," said Drew. "You are on trial here, sir, not I. Of course, I shall not answer your questions."
Farthest from Drew and facing him sat the chairman of the committee, its youngest member, Roberts of Denver—a slender, tall man, with sinews like steel wires enwrapping his bones, and nothing else beneath a skin tanned by the sun into leather. He had eyes that suggested the full-end view of the barrel of a cocked revolver. "Speak your questions to me, Mr. Armstrong," now said this quiet, dry, dangerous-looking person, "and I'll put 'em to our counsel. Where did you dine last night, Mr. Drew?"
Drew glanced into those eyes and glanced away. "It is evidently Mr. Armstrong's intention to foment dissension in the committee," said he. "I trust you gentlemen will not fall headlong into his trap."
"Why do you object to telling us where you dined last night?" asked Roberts.
"I can see no relevancy to our mission in the fact that I dined with my old friend, Judge Bimberger."
"Ask him how long he has known Judge Bimberger," said Armstrong.
"I have known him for years," said Drew. "But I have not seen much of him lately."
"Then, ask him," said Armstrong to Roberts, "why it was necessary for Mr. Atwater to give Bimberger a letter of introduction to him, a letter which the judge sent up with his card at the Manhattan Hotel at four o'clock yesterday afternoon."
Drew smiled contemptuously, without looking at either Armstrong or the chairman. "It was not a letter of introduction. It was a friendly note Mr. Atwater asked the judge to deliver."