“That’s right.”
“Then that will be all. You may stand down.”
“Call Mr. Patrick Ives,” said Mr. Lambert.
“Mr. Patrick Ives!”
From the corner by the window where he had sat, hour after hour and day after day, with his mother’s small gloved hand resting lightly and reassuringly on his knee, Patrick Ives rose and moved slowly forward toward the witness box.
How tall he was, thought the red-headed girl—how tall and young, for all the haggard misery and bitterness of that white and reckless face. He stood staring about him for a moment, his black head towering inches above those about him; then, with one swift stride, he was in his place.
“Mr. Ives, will you be good enough to tell us as concisely as possible just what happened on the night of June 19, 1926, from the time that you arrived at your home to the time that you retired for the night?”
“Oh,” said Patrick Ives indifferently, “I doubt whether I could do anything along that line at all. I have a notoriously bad memory, and I’d simply be faking a lot of stuff that wouldn’t do either of us any good. Besides, most of that ground has been gone over by other witnesses, hasn’t it?”
The casual insolence of the conversational tone had had the effect of literally hypnotizing Mr. Lambert, Mr. Farr, and the redoubtable Carver himself into a state of stupefied inaction. As the voice ceased, however, all three emerged from coma into violent energy. It was difficult to tell which of the three was the more profoundly moved, though Mr. Lambert’s protestations were the most piercing. Fortified by his gavel, however, Judge Carver managed to batter the rest into silence.
“Let that answer be stricken from the record! It is totally improper, Mr. Ives. This is not a debating society. You will kindly refrain from expressing your opinions on any subject whatsoever, and will confine yourself to the briefest replies possible.”