“Wasn’t Mr. Ives in the room at the time?”
“Well, no,” said Mr. Dallas, a curious, apprehensive shadow playing over his sunny countenance. “No, he wasn’t.”
“I see. What time had he arrived, Mr. Dallas?”
“Mr. Ives?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Dallas cast a fleeting and despairing glance at the white-faced figure in the corner by the window, and Patrick Ives returned it with a steady, amused, indifferent air. “Oh—oh, well, he hadn’t.”
Mr. Lambert stopped, literally transfixed, his eyes bulging in his head. “You mean that he hadn’t arrived at a quarter to ten?”
“No, he hadn’t.”
For the first time since the trial opened, Sue Ives stirred in her seat. She leaned forward swiftly, her eyes, urgent and imperious, on her stupefied counsel. Her lifted face, suddenly vivid with purpose, her lifted hand, cried a warning to him clearer than words. But Mr. Lambert was heeding no warnings.
“What time did he get there?”