“Mrs. Ives packed it herself.”
“Ah, I see.” In that sudden white light of triumph the prosecutor’s face was almost beautiful—a cruel and sinister beauty, such as might have lighted the face of the youngest Spanish Inquisitionist as the stray shot of a question went straight to the enemy’s heart. “It was Mrs. Ives who packed it. How did it come into your hands, Miss Roberts?”
“The package, sir?”
“Certainly, the package.”
“It was this way, sir: A little before eight Sunday morning Mrs. Ives’s bell rang and I went down to her room. She was all dressed for church, and there was a big box on her bed. She said, ‘I rang for you before, Roberts, but you were probably at breakfast. Take this down to MacDonald and tell him to mail it when he gets the papers. The post office closes at half-past nine.’ ”
“Was that all that she said?”
“Oh, no, sir. She asked me for some fresh gloves, and then she said over her shoulder like as she was going out, ‘It’s those things that I was getting together for the Salvation Army. I put in the coat I was wearing last night too. I absolutely ruined it with some automobile grease on Mr. Bellamy’s car.’ ”
“Nothing more?”
“Well, then I said, ‘Oh, madam, couldn’t it be cleaned?’ And Mrs. Ives said, ‘It isn’t worth cleaning; this is the third year I’ve had it.’ Then she went out, sir, and I took it down and gave it to MacDonald.”
“Was it addressed?”