“At half-past eleven I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been killed.” The dark eyes slipped sidelong in the direction of the quiet young woman who had not so long since been her mistress. There she sat, leaning easily back in the straight, uncomfortable chair, ankles crossed, hands linked, studying the tips of her squarely cut little shoes with lowered eyes. The black eyes travelled from the edge of the kilted skirt to the edge of the small firm chin and then slid slowly back to the prosecutor: “When I heard that, I was not content, so I no longer stayed.”
“Exactly.” The prosecutor plunged his hands deep in his pockets and cocked a flagrantly triumphant eye at the agitated Lambert. “You no longer stayed. That will be all, Miss Cordier. Cross-examine.”
“Miss Cordier, you knew perfectly that if for one second it came to Mrs. Ives’s attention that you had been acting as go-between in the alleged correspondence between her husband and Mrs. Bellamy you would not have remained five minutes under her roof, did you not?”
Miss Cordier leaned a trifle farther over the edge of the witness box to meet the rough anger of Lambert’s voice, something ugly and insolent hardening the creamy mask of her face.
“I know that when Mrs. Ives is angered she is quick to speak, quick to act—yes, monsieur.”
At the fatal swiftness of that blow, the ruddy face before her sagged and paled, then rallied valiantly. “And so you decided that you had better leave before Mr. Ives questioned her about finding the note and you were turned out in disgrace, didn’t you?”
“I have said already, monsieur, that I leave because I have heard that Mrs. Bellamy have been murdered and I am not content.” The ominously soft voice pronounced each syllable with a lingering and deadly deliberation.
Mr. Lambert eyed her savagely and moved heavily on: “You say that you were cut off from escaping through the hall by the fact that you saw that it was occupied by Mr. Farwell and Mrs. Ives?”
“That is so.”
“Why didn’t you go back through the dining room to the pantry?”