“They could not very well avoid doing so.”
“Would the contents of the top of the desk be visible from the doorway?”
“Oh, surely. The study is not a large room.”
The prosecutor made two strides toward the witness box. Something small and dark and bright glinted for a moment in his hand. “Miss Page, have you ever seen this knife before?”
Very delicately Miss Page lifted it in her slender fingers, eyeing it gravely and fastidiously. “Yes,” she said quietly.
A little wind seemed to blow suddenly through the courtroom—a little, cold, ominous wind.
“Where?”
“On the desk in Mr. Patrick Ives’s study on the afternoon of the nineteenth of June, 1926.”
In a voice almost as gentle as her own, the prosecutor said, “That will be all, Miss Page. You may go.”
And as lightly, as softly as she had come, Miss Page slipped from the witness box and was gone.