“He’s a pompous old jackass,” said the reporter unkindly. “But he loves his Sue, and he did just a little better than he knows how. Not so good at that either. You don’t make a case ridiculous by jeering at it. If——”
“Call Mrs. Platz!” boomed the oblivious object of his strictures.
“Mrs. Adolph Platz!”
Mrs. Platz, minute and meek, with straw-coloured hair and straw-coloured lashes and a small pink nose in a small white face, advanced toward the witness stand with no assurance whatever.
“Mrs. Platz, what was your position on June 19, 1926?”
“I was chambermaid-waitress with Mrs. Alfred Bond at Oyster Bay.”
“Had you been formerly in the employ of Mrs. Patrick Ives?”
“Yes, sir, I was, for about six months in 1925. I just did chamber work there, though.”
“Was your husband there at the time?”
“Yes, sir. Adolph was there as what you might call a useful man. He helped with the furnace and garden and ran the station wagon—things like that.”