“No; of course, he wasn't! I have told that to Monsieur Dupont, too. I heard him coming downstairs just as I left the room.”
“That is all, Madame Blondin, thank you, unless——” The crown prosecutor turned again toward the counsel for the defence.
Lemoyne rose, and, standing by his chair without approaching the witness box, took a small penknife from his pocket, and held it up.
“Madame Blondin,” he said gently, “will you tell me what I am holding in my hand?”
Mother Blondin squinted, set her glasses further on her nose, and shook her head.
“I do not know,” she said.
“You do not see very well, Madame Blondin?”—sympathetically.
“What is it you have got there—eh? What is it?” she demanded sharply.
Lemoyne glanced at the jury—and smiled. He restored the penknife to his pocket.
“It is a penknife, Madame Blondin—one of my own. An object that any one would recognise—unless one did not see very well. Are you quite sure, Madame Blondin—quite sure on second thoughts—that you see well enough to identify the prisoner so positively as the man who was fighting with your son?”