Stebbins huffed and he puffed; Belknap cleared his throat; Berry smiled.
“I said what were you doing in the hall at 4:30 A.M.?” Stebbins’ voice did all the things Stebbins would have enjoyed doing.
“I had put my shoes out at 11 P.M., and I thought they might be back by four.” Julian was examining the end of his tie.
“Contempt of court, Julian,” Belknap said. “Come now, boy—”
“You leave him to me,” Stebbins thundered. “I’m talking to him, Mr. Belknap. Now, Mr. Prentice, will you repeat that again about you and Miss Lacey?”
“The others must be tired of hearing it; but if you want it, I’m never tired of saying it.” Julian struck a sentimental attitude. “I love her.”
Stebbins blushed.
“I’m asking you what went on in your room—I mean what was Miss Lacey doing in your—I mean— Oh, get to Hell out of here. I’ll call you again when I need you. Bring in Crawford.”
‘Bring in Crawford!’ All afternoon the word had periodically come out: ‘Bring in Crawford,’ and at each call Crawford, more shattered, more bewildered, more desperately ill with weariness and anguish, was led in, only to come out again to a stark and tragic Sydney who, between rounds as it were, tried mechanically to warm his hands with her colder hands.
Stebbins decidedly had it in for Crawford. Naturally he was prejudiced by a nasty little battle that had left him two badly wounded men.