“Not a word, sir,” insisted Joe.
“Who else was in that room?”
“Nobody, sir.”
The prosecutor leaned forward, his face as red as if he struggled to lift a heavy weight.
“Do you mean to sit there and tell this jury that Isom Chase stepped right into that room and threatened to kill you without any reason, without any previous quarrel, without seeing you doing something that gave him ground for his threat?”
Joe moved his feet uneasily, clasped and unclasped his long fingers where they rested on the arm of his chair, and moistened his lips with his tongue. The struggle was coming now. They would rack him, and tear him, and break his heart. 285
“I don’t know whether they’ll believe it or not,” said he at last.
“Where was Ollie Chase when Isom came into that room?” asked the prosecutor, lowering his voice as the men who tiptoed around old Isom when he lay dead on the kitchen floor had lowered theirs.
“You have heard her say that she was in her room upstairs,” said Joe.
“But I am asking you this question,” the prosecutor reminded him sharply. “Where was Ollie Chase?”