“Just tell us what it was, please.”
Miss Cordier spent an interminable moment critically inspecting a pair of immaculate cream-coloured gloves before she decided to gratify this desire: “It was just so soon as Mr. Ives and his mother have finish’ breakfast, a few minutes before half-past nine. Mr. Ives he go directly to his study, and I go after him with the Sunday papers and before I go out I ask—because me, I am desirous to know—‘Mr. Ives, you have got that note all right what I put in the book?’ And he say——”
“Your Honour, I object! I object! What Mr. Ives said——”
This time there was no indecision whatever in the clamour set up by the long-suffering Lambert, and the prosecutor, eyeing him benevolently, raised a warning hand to his witness. “Never mind what he said, Miss Cordier. Just tell us what you said.”
“I said, after he spoke, ‘Oh, Mr. Ives, then if you have not got it, it is Mrs. Ives who have found it. She have seen me put it in the book while she stood there in the hall.’ ”
The prosecutor waited for a well-considered moment to permit this conveniently revelatory reply to sink in. “It was after this conversation with Mr. Ives that you decided you would no longer remain with Mrs. Ives?”
“No, monsieur, it was later in the morning that I decide that.”
“Something occurred that made you decide it then?”
Miss Cordier’s lacquer-red lips parted, closed, parted again. “Yes.”
“What, Miss Cordier?”