“At about nine-thirty?”
“No.”
Mr. Lambert, the ruddy moon of his countenance suddenly alive with malice, shot his question viciously into the tortured mask: “It was not your laugh that Mr. Thorne heard coming from the cottage, Mr. Farwell?”
“You——”
Over the gasp of the courtroom rose the bellow of rage from the witness box, the metallic ring of the prosecutor’s voice, the thunder of Judge Carver’s gavel and Ben Potts’s chant.
“Silence! Silence!”
“Your Honour, I would like to ask one question. Is Mr. Farwell on trial for his life here, or is this the case of the People versus Bellamy and Ives?”
“This Court is not given to answering rhetorical questions, Mr. Farr. Mr. Lambert, Mr. Farwell has already told you several times that he was not at Orchards on the night of June nineteenth. The Court has given you great latitude in your cross-examination, but it does not propose to let you press it farther along those lines. If you have other questions to put, you may proceed.”
“No further questions, Your Honour.” Mr. Lambert’s voice remained buoyantly impervious to rebuke.
“One moment, Mr. Farwell.” The prosecutor moved swiftly forward. The man in the witness box, who had lurched to his feet at that last outrage from the exultant Lambert, turned smouldering eyes on him. On the rim of the witness box, his hands were shaking visibly—thick, well groomed, insensitive hands, with a heavy seal ring on one finger. “You admit that you had been drinking heavily before you spoke to Mrs. Ives, do you not?”