“Judd Tolliver.”
“Do you know the prisoner?”
“He is my foster-uncle.”
“Were you at home on the night of August the tenth?”
“I was.”
“Have you ever heard the prisoner express any enmity against this volunteer Police Guard?” He waved his hand toward the men at the portholes and about the railing—unconsciously leaving his hand directly pointed at Hale. June hesitated and Rufe leaned one elbow on the table, and the light in his eyes beat with fierce intensity into the girl's eyes into which came a curious frightened look that Hale remembered—the same look she had shown long ago when Rufe's name was mentioned in the old miller's cabin, and when going up the river road she had put her childish trust in him to see that her bad uncle bothered her no more. Hale had never forgot that, and if it had not been absurd he would have stopped the prisoner from staring at her now. An anxious look had come into Rufe's eyes—would she lie for him?
“Never,” said June. Ah, she would—she was a Tolliver and Rufe took a breath of deep content.
“You never heard him express any enmity toward the Police Guard—before that night?”
“I have answered that question,” said June with dignity and Rufe's lawyer was on his feet.
“Your Honour, I object,” he said indignantly.