“Was she speaking to someone in the room?”
“No, she was telephoning. I think that I’ve already said that the downstairs ’phone is in that room. She was giving a telephone number—Rosemont 200.”
“Were you familiar with that number?”
“Oh, quite. I had called it up for Mrs. Ives several times.”
“Whose number was it, Miss Page?”
“It was Mr. Stephen Bellamy’s telephone number.”
The courtroom pulsed to galvanized attention, its eyes whipping to Stephen Bellamy’s tired, dark face. It was lit with a strange, friendly, reassuring smile, directed straight at Susan Ives’s startled countenance. For a moment she stared back at him soberly, then slowly the colour came back into her parted lips, which curved gravely to mirror that voiceless greeting. For a long moment their eyes rested on each other before they returned to their accustomed guarded inscrutability. As clearly as though they were shouting across the straining faces, those lingering eyes called to each other, “Courage!”
“You say that you could hear Mrs. Ives distinctly, Miss Page?”
“Very distinctly.”
“Will you tell us just what she said?”