“That’s prudent of you, as Sergeant Johnson has testified that there was no grease whatever on the car.”
“I meant to explain that before,” said Sue Ives simply. “Only there were so many other things that I forgot. It was kerosene from the lamp—the coat was covered with it. I didn’t know how to explain it, so I thought that I had better get rid of it.”
“I see,” said the prosecutor grimly. “You’re a very resourceful young woman, aren’t you?”
“No,” said the clear, grave voice. “I don’t think that I’m particularly resourceful.”
“I differ from you. . . . Mrs. Ives, you didn’t intend to tell this jury that you had been in the gardener’s cottage on the night of the nineteenth of June, did you?”
“Not if I could avoid doing so without perjuring myself.”
“You decided to do so only when you were literally forced to it by information that you found was in the state’s possession?”
“It is hard for me to answer that by yes or no,” said Susan Ives. “But I suppose that the fairest answer to it is yes.”
“You had decided to withhold this vitally important information because you and Stephen Bellamy had together reached the conclusion that no twelve sane men could be found to accept the fantastic coincidence that you and he were in the room in which this murder was committed within a few minutes of this crime, and yet had nothing whatever to do with it?”
“I think that again the answer should be yes.”