At last Hammer seemed skirmishing in his mind in search of some stray question which might have escaped him, which he appeared unable to find. He turned his papers, he made a show of considering something, while the witness sat with her head bowed, her half-closed eyelids purple from much weeping, worrying, and watching for the coming of one who had taken the key to her poor, simple heart and gone his careless way.
“That’s all, Missis Chase,” said Hammer.
Ollie leaned over, picked up one of her gloves that had fallen to the floor, and started to leave the chair. Her relief was evident in her face. The prosecutor, suddenly alive, was on his feet. He stretched out his arm, staying her with a commanding gesture.
“Wait a minute, Mrs. Chase,” said he.
A stir of expectation rustled through the room again as Ollie resumed her seat. People moistened their lips, suddenly grown hot and dry.
“Now, just watch Sam Lucas!” they said.
“Now, Mrs. Chase,” began the prosecutor, assuming the 267 polemical attitude common to small lawyers when cross-examining a witness; “I’ll ask you to tell this jury whether you were alone in your house with Joe Newbolt on the night of October twelfth, when Isom Chase, your husband, was killed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This man Morgan, the book-agent, who had been boarding with you, had paid his bill and gone away?”
“Yes, sir.”