“More than ample—yes.”
“Mr. Platz had left his wife some time before these unhappy events caused you to leave Mrs. Ives, hadn’t he?”
“Of a surety, monsieur.”
“That’s all, thank you, Miss Cordier.”
Miss Cordier moved leisurely from the stand, chic and poised as ever, disdaining even a glance at the highly gratified Lambert, and bestowing the briefest of smiles on Mr. Farr, who responded even more briefly. Many a lady, trailing sable and brocade from an opera box, has moved with less assurance and grace than Mrs. Ives’s one-time waitress, the temporary Mrs. Adolph Platz. The eyes of the courtroom, perplexed, diverted, and faintly disturbed, followed her balanced and orderly retreat, the scarlet camellia defiant as a little flag.
“Call Miss Roberts.”
“Miss Laura Roberts!”
Miss Laura Roberts also wore black, but she wore her black with a difference. A decent, sober, respectful apparel for a decent, sober, respectful little person—Miss Roberts, comely, rosy-faced, gray-eyed, fawn-haired and soft-voiced, had all the surface qualifications of an ideal maid, and she obviously considered that those qualifications did not include scarlet lips and scarlet flowers. Under the neat black hat her eyes met the prosecutor’s shyly and bravely.
“Miss Roberts, what was your occupation on June nineteenth, 1926?”
“I was maid and seamstress to Mrs. Patrick Ives, sir.”