Once more the atmosphere of the court grew hostile. Watching the jury, Bonnie could see that his enemy had almost turned them. Impassivity settled like a mask on the faces of the nine men. The two spinsters gazed awe-struck at the big weapon in the seafarer's big hand. Even the red-hatted matron, whom he had decided a moment since definitely favorable, shook her head twice as though in new doubt. Then, turning from the jury-box to the dock, Ronnie was aware of his client's eyes. The eyes--Aliette's very own---looked pitiful. Imagination told him that they were afraid, that at last the woman realized her danger. He tried to signal to her; but she took no notice of his signal.
"That will be enough, I think," gloated Brunton; and, nervously, Ronnie started his task of cross-examination.
"You've known Robert Fielding for some time?"
"About seven years."
"Is he, in your opinion, a violent man? The kind of man who would commit a murder?"
"No."
"Or," Ronnie's nervous voice dropped two full tones, "the sort of man who would incite some one else to commit murder?"
"No."
"When Robert Fielding told you that he was in love with his cousin--that was a good many years ago, wasn't it?--did you understand that there was anything guilty in that love? That his cousin was his mistress?"
"No. I did not." The sailor's eyes--blue as the barrister's own--kindled.