“Were you in the garden the night of the nineteenth of June, Mrs. Ives?”
“In the rose garden—yes.”
“Did you see Miss Page on her way to the sand pile?”
“I believe that I did, although I have nothing that particularly fixes it in my mind.”
“Did you see your daughter-in-law?”
“Yes.”
For a moment the faintest shadow passed over her face—a shadow of doubt, of hesitancy. Her glance went past the prosecutor to the place where her daughter-in-law was sitting, quietly attentive, and briefly, profoundly, their eyes met. The shadow passed.
“Which way was she going?”
“She was going past the rose garden toward the back gate of the house.”
“Just one moment, Mrs. Ives. What is the distance between Mr. Ives’s house and Orchards?”