"Naturally not. Now listen." Ronnie leaned forward; and his gaze traveled towards the jury. "I put it to you that the remark was meant as a joke."
"Well, not exactly a joke."
"Come, come, Mr. Hodges," said Ronnie, and his tone was a shade less suave than his words, "you're a man of the world. You must have realized at the time whether the accused was speaking seriously or not.'
"I thought she was serious." The book-maker, though obviously flustered, stuck to his guns.
"Very well. We'll leave it at that. The accused told you, in her husband's presence, that she wished she'd never married him. Her husband, apparently, didn't take any notice of the remark. But you thought it was serious. Not very convincing--but still----"
Ronnie's question trailed off into a sarcastic silence. Looking sideways at Brunton, he could see that Brunton was troubled; Brunton kept talking to Smith-Assher, kept fidgeting with his gown and tapes, with the pencils and paper in front of him. The sight gave Ronnie confidence. He continued his cross-examination.
"You told my learned friend that, although William Towers was very fond of his wife, his affection was not reciprocated. How did you know that? Did she tell you?"
"No."
"Did William Towers tell you?"
"No."