“That is all that you desire to state, Mr. Farr?”
“Yes, Your Honour. No further questions, Mr. Farwell. Cross-examine.”
“What kind of a cigarette lighter was this, Mr. Farwell?” There was an ominous rumble in Lambert’s voice.
“A little black enamel and silver thing that you could light with one hand. They brought a lot of them over from England in ’17 and ’18.”
“Had anyone ever suggested to you that this lighter might possibly prove a dangerous weapon against you if it fell into the hands of the defense?” inquired Mr. Lambert, in what were obviously intended to be silken tones.
“No,” replied Mr. Farwell belligerently; “no one ever told me anything of the kind.”
Mr. Farr permitted himself a fleeting and ironic smile in the direction of his adversary before he turned a countenance lit with splendid indignation in the direction of the jury.
“Mr. Farwell, you told the prosecutor that you had had a couple of drinks before you confided this story about her husband to Mrs. Ives. Was that accurate, or had you had more?”
“I’d had three or four, maybe—I don’t remember.”
“Three or four after you came off the links?”