“He—well, you see—he didn’t get there.”
Mr. Dallas again turned imploring eyes on the gentleman in the corner, whose own eyes smiled back indulgently, a little more indifferent, a little more amused.
“Had he let you know of this change of plans?”
“No,” said Mr. Dallas wretchedly. “No, he hadn’t—exactly.”
“He simply didn’t turn up?”
“That’s it—he just didn’t turn up.” Mr. Dallas’s voice made a feeble effort to imply that nothing could possibly be of less consequence between men of the world.
Mr. Lambert, stupor still rounding his eyes, made a vague gesture of dismissal, his face carefully averted from Sue Ives’s sternly accusing countenance.
“No further questions.”
Mr. Dallas scrambled hastily to his feet, his ingenuous gaze turned hopefully on the prosecutor.
The expression on the prosecutor’s classic features, however, was not calculated to reassure the most optimistic. Mr. Farr was contemplating the amiable countenance of his late witness with much the look of astounded displeasure which must have adorned Medusa’s first audience. He, too, sketched a slight gesture of dismissal toward the door, and Dallas, eager and docile, followed it.