The second day of the Bellamy trial was over.
Chapter III
“Oh, I knew I would be—I knew it!” moaned the red-headed girl crawling abjectly over three irritated and unhelpful members of the Fourth Estate, dropping her pencil, dropping her notebook, dropping a pair of gray gloves and a squirrel scarf, and lifting a stricken face to the menacing countenance of Ben Potts, king of court criers. “I’ve been late for every single thing that’s happened since I got to this wretched town. It’s like Alice in Wonderland—you have to run like mad to keep in the same place. Who’s talking? What’s happened?”
“Well, you seem to be doing most of the talking,” replied the real reporter unkindly. “And about all that’s happened has been fifteen minutes of as hot legal brimstone and sulphur as you’d want to hear in a thousand years, emitted by the Mephistophelean Farr, who thinks it would be nice to have a jackknife in evidence, and the inflammable Lambert, who thinks it would be horrid. Mr. Lambert was mistaken, the knife is in, and they’re just opening a few windows to clear the air. Outside of that, everything’s lovely. Not a soul’s confessed, the day is young, and Mr. Douglas Thorne is just taking the stand. Carry on!”
The red-headed girl watched the lean, bronzed gentleman with sandy hair and a look of effortless distinction with approval. Nice eyes, nice hands.
“Mr. Thorne, what is your occupation?”
Nice voice: “I am a member of the New York Stock Exchange.”
“Are you a relative of the defendant, Susan Ives?”
“Her elder brother, I’m proud to say.”
His pleasant eyes smiled down at the slight figure in the familiar tweed suit, and for the first since she had come to court Sue Ives smiled back freely and spontaneously— a friendly, joyous smile, brilliant as a banner.