“Mrs. Ives.”
As though the name were a magnet, the faces in the courtroom swung in a brief half circle toward its owner. There she sat in her brief tweed skirt and loose jacket, the bright little felt hat pulled severely down over the shining wings of her hair, her hidden eyes riveted on her clasped hands in their fawn-coloured gauntlets. At the sound of her name she lifted her head, glanced briefly and levelly at the greedy, curious faces pressing toward her, less briefly and more levelly at the seraphic countenance under the drooping feather on the witness stand, and returned to the gloves. Only the curve of her lips remained for the benefit of those prying eyes—a lovely curve, ironic and inscrutable. The half circle swung back to the demure occupant of the witness box.
“And how long were you in Mrs. Ives’s employment?”
“Until June, 1926.”
“What day of the month?”
“The twenty-first.”
“Then on the night of the nineteenth of June you were still in the employment of Mrs. Ives?”
“Yes.”
“Will you be good enough to tell us just what you were doing at eight o’clock that evening?”
“I had finished supper at a little before eight and was just settling down to read in the day nursery when I remembered that I had left my book down by the sand pile at the end of the garden, where I had been playing with the children before supper. So I went down to get it.”