“I didn’t know even whether she saw Mr. Ives,” said Florrie Biggs.
Mr. Lambert beamed gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Biggs. That’s all.”
“Just one moment more, please.” The prosecutor, too, was looking as paternal as was possible under the rather severe limitations of his saturnine countenance. “Mr. Lambert was just asking you if it would have been natural for her to confide in you, as girls generally confide in their best friends. At the time of this murder, and for many years previous, you weren’t Mrs. Bellamy’s best friend, were you, Miss Biggs?”
“No, sir, I guess I wasn’t.”
“There was very little affection and intimacy between you, wasn’t there?”
“I don’t know what you call between us,” said Miss. Biggs, and the pretty, common, swollen face was suddenly invested with dignity and beauty. “I loved her better than anyone I knew. She was the only best friend I ever had—ever.”
And swept by the hunger in that quiet and humble voice, the courtroom was suddenly empty of everyone but two little girls, warm cheeked, bright eyed, gingham clad—a sleek pig-tailed head and a froth of bright curls locked together over an inkstained desk. Best friends—four scuffed feet flying down the twilight street on roller skates—two mittened paws clutching each other under the shaggy robe of the bell-hung sleigh—a slim arm around a chubby waist on the hay cart—decorous, mischievous eyes meeting over the rims of the frosted glasses of sarsaparilla while brown-stockinged legs swung free of the tall drug-store stools—a shrill voice calling down the street in the sweet-scented dusk, “Yoo-hoo, Mimi! Mimi, c’mon out and play.” Mimi, Mimi, lying so still with red on your white lace dress, come on out and——
“Thank you, Miss Biggs: that’s all.”
She stumbled a little on the step of the witness box, brushed once more at her eyes with impatient fingers and was gone.
“Call Mrs. Daniel Ives.”