But curiosity will have to wait; for all at once, and strange to say without her name being called out in the usual way, a tall young woman is seen almost running up the steps of the witness-box.
She wears what, to the expert feminine eyes now insistently fastened on her, are obviously cheap, ready-made, badly cut mourning clothes; a rusty black serge coat and skirt, and a curious-looking little black bonnet of the kind which some of the older people in Court can remember having been worn when they were young—a princess bonnet it used to be called. This particular princess bonnet has a queer wispy veil hanging down behind. In fact the young woman—she is not only a young but a very good-looking woman, so all the men in Court notice—looks like a widow of the humblest working class.
Instead of being ordered to stand down, in order that Agatha Cheale may be called, to the general surprise the stranger is sworn.
With this witness the taking of the oath is not a perfunctory formality, as it seemed to be with so many of the witnesses, but a very solemn act. And, while she is being sworn, she looks at the judge as if he were the only person in that crowded Court.
Sir Harold rises to his feet, and then the witness suddenly cries out: “May I speak now?”
The judge leans forward.
“No, madam, you may not speak now. You are here to answer questions put to you by counsel.”
She is obviously cowed by those quiet firm cold tones, and clasps her hands nervously together on the ledge of the witness-box as she stares distrustfully at the tall, stout gentleman who is now going to put to her those questions to which alone she may make answer.
“Your name,” begins Sir Harold in a very kindly, conversational voice, “is Lucy Cheale?”
Most of the general public in Court are surprised. What an odd mistake for the great advocate to have made! But of course he is tired—tired and worried no doubt by that important communication concerning which he and the judge have just had that curious little mysterious interchange of words.