“Spend the evenings with them?”
“No.”
Miss Page’s fringed eyes were as luminous and steady as ever, but the stain in her cheeks had spread to her throat.
“You resented that fact, didn’t you?”
The prosecutor’s voice whipped out of the brief silence like a sword leaping from the scabbard: “I object to that question. To paraphrase my learned opponent, what possible relevance has Miss Page’s sense of resentment or contentment got to do with the murder of this girl?”
“And to quote my witty adversary’s reply, Your Honour, it has everything to do with it. We propose definitely to attack Miss Page’s credibility. We believe we can show that she detested Mrs. Ives and would not hesitate to do her a disservice.”
“Oh,” said the prosecutor, with much deliberation, “that’s what you propose to show, is it?”
Even the clatter of the judge’s gavel did not cause him to turn his head an inch. He continued to gaze imperturbably at the occupant in the box, who, demure and pensive, returned it unswervingly. In the brief moment occupied by the prosecutor’s skilful intervention the flush had faded entirely. Miss Page looked as cool and tranquil as a little spring in the forest.
“You may answer the question, Miss Page,” said the judge a trifle sternly.
“May I have the question repeated?”