“No, sir,” replied Miss Roberts, a trifle pinker and a trifle firmer. “Mrs. Ives told me that those stains were grease stains, so I’m certainly able to say of my own knowledge that it was absolutely true if she said so.”
There was something in the soft, sturdy voice that made the grimy courtroom a pleasanter place. Sue Ives’s careless serenity flashed suddenly to that of a delighted child; Stephen Bellamy’s fine, grave face warmed and lightened; the shadows lifted for a moment from Pat Ives’s haunted eyes; there was a grateful murmur from the press, a friendly stir in the jury. The quiet-eyed, soft-voiced, stubborn little Miss Roberts was undoubtedly the heroine of the moment.
Mr. Farr, however, was obviously unmoved by this exhibition of devotion and loyalty. He permitted more than a trace of annoyance to penetrate his clear, metallic voice. “That’s all very pretty and touching, naturally, Miss Roberts, but from a crudely legal standpoint we are forced to realize that your statement as to the nature of the stains has no weight whatever. It is a fact, is it not, that you never laid eyes on the stained coat that Mrs. Ives sent out of her house within a few hours of the time that this murder was committed?”
“Yes, sir, that is a fact.”
“No further questions, Miss Roberts. Cross-examine.”
“It is a fact, too, that Mrs. Ives frequently sent packages in just this way, isn’t it, Miss Roberts?” inquired Mr. Lambert mellifluously.
“Oh, yes, indeed, she did—often and often.”
“Was she in the habit of putting her address on packages sent to charitable institutions?”
“No, sir. She didn’t want to be thanked for her charities—not ever.”
“Precisely. That’s all, Miss Roberts—thanks.”