"Oh, yes."
"Then we have two Aronsons in the case; Mr. Saul Aronson, my assistant, and Mr. Jacob Aronson, the piano dealer, who will testify to having received the postal card copied on the blotting-pad. And this Mr. Aronson who visited you declared that he had been a locksmith, if I understood your story?"
"He said so."
"That is not surprising. Mr. Aronson, my assistant, was formerly a locksmith. What was the date of your interview?"
"The first part of July. I can't remember the exact day," replied the witness, a bit nettled. The rusticity was rubbing on again in her manner, and to Saul Aronson it actually seemed that her cheekbones were becoming prominent, like those of her horrid aunt whom he had met on that fateful evening. But this may have been an optical illusion. The sympathy of the spectators trembled in the balance. She seemed so young and dove-like. But there stood Shagarach confronting her, hostile, skeptical, uncompromising.
"Mr. Aronson had made this alleged attempt to open a safe on Sunday evening, you said?"
"On the evening of the Sabbath."
Here Aronson gesticulated and whispered in Shagarach's ear. The lawyer listened calmly.
"When did you first become acquainted with him?"
"I don't remember exactly. He came to our meetings for a long time before I was introduced to him."