“Benches are very alike in the dark.”
“But occupants of them are not. Don’t fence with the court. Were you wearing one or more roses of the general hue and device of those now displayed in your cheeks?”
“The honorable court has nothing to do with my face,” said the witness defiantly.
“On the contrary, your face is the corpus delicti. Did you, taking advantage of the unconscious and hence defenseless condition of my client, that is, of Mr. Martin Dyke, lean over him and deliberately imprint a—”
“No! No! No! No! No!” cried the butterfly with great and unconvincing fervor. “How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”
“On the circumstantial evidence of a pink rose petal. But worse is coming. The charge is unprovoked and willful murder.”
Butterflies are strange creatures. This one seemed far less concerned over the latter than the former accusation. “Of whom?” she inquired.
“You have killed a budding poet.” Here I violated a sacred if implied confidence by relating what the bewitched sleeper on the bench had said under the spell of the moon.
The result was most gratifying. The butterfly assured me with indignation that it was only a cold in her head, which had been annoying her for days: that was what made her eyes act so, and I was a suspicious and malevolent old gentleman—and—and—and perhaps some day she and Mr. Martin Dyke might happen to meet.
“Is that a message?” I asked.