Lambert settled his glasses on his nose with a shaken hand. “It says—it says:
“My dear Mr. Lambert:
“Before this case goes to the jury, I consider it my duty to lay before them some knowledge of the most vital importance that is my possession, and that for personal reasons I have withheld up to the present time, in the hope that events would render it unnecessary for me to take the stand. Such has unfortunately not been the case, and I therefore put myself at your disposal. Will you tell me what my next step should be? The facts are such as make it imperative that I should be permitted to speak.
“Randolph Phipps.”
Judge Carver said slowly, “May I see the note?” Lambert handed it up in those shaking fingers. “Thank you. A most extraordinary performance,” commented the judge dispassionately. After a moment he said more dispassionately still:
“The Court was about to adjourn in any case until to-morrow morning. It does not care to deliver its charge to the jury at this late hour of the day, and we will therefore convene again at ten to-morrow. In the meantime the Court will take the note under advisement. See that Mr. Phipps is present in the morning. Court is dismissed.”
“I don’t believe that I’ll be here in the morning,” said the red-headed girl in that same small monotone.
“Not be here?” The reporter’s voice was a howl of incredulity. “Not be here, you little idiot? Did you hear what Lambert read off that card?”
“I don’t think that I’ll live till morning,” said the red-headed girl.
The seventh day of the Bellamy trial was over.
Chapter VIII
The red-headed girl had not realized how tired she was until she heard Ben Potts’s voice. He stood there as straight as ever, but where were the clear bugle tones that summoned the good burghers of Redfield morning after morning? A faint, a lamentable, echo of his impressive “Hear ye! Hear ye!” rang out feebly, and the red-headed girl slumped back dispiritedly in her chair, consumed with fatigue as with a fever.