“I ask that that reply be stricken from the record, Your Honour!”
The white savagery of Mr. Farr’s face was not an agreeable sight.
“Both your question and the witness’s reply may be so stricken,” said Judge Carver sternly. “They were equally improper. You may proceed, Mr. Farr.”
Mr. Farr, by a truly Herculean effort, managed to reduce both voice and countenance to a semblance better suited to so ardent a seeker for truth. “You wish us to believe then, Mr. Phipps, that on the night of the nineteenth of June, for the first time in over ten years, you went to the gardener’s cottage at Orchards at the precise moment that enabled you to recognize Susan Ives and Stephen Bellamy standing in the circle of their automobile lights?”
“That is exactly what I wish you to believe,” said Mr. Phipps steadily. “It is the truth.”
Mr. Farr bestowed on him a long look in which irony, skepticism, and contemptuous pity were neatly blended. “No further questions,” he said briefly. “Call Miss Dunne.”
“Miss Sally Dunne!”
Miss Sally Dunne came quickly, so tall, so brave, so young and pale in her blue serge dress with its neat little white collar and cuffs, that more than one person in the dark courtroom caught themselves wondering with a catch at the heart how long it had been since she had coiled those smooth brown braids over her ears and smoothed the hair ribbons out for the last time. She was not pretty. She had a sad little heart-shaped face and widely spaced hazel eyes, candid and trustful. These she turned on Mr. Lambert, and steadied her lips, which were trembling.
“Miss Dunne, I just want you to tell us one or two things. You heard Mr. Phipps’ testimony?”
“Yes, sir.” A child’s voice, clear as water, troubled and innocent.