Part 3 (1/2)
”Miss Bertha Lund,” called Badger. She arose, the same tidy, buxom maiden as ever, but pale and with traces of tears. An oath was administered and the young woman motioned to the witness-box.
”How long have you been a servant in the Arnold house, Miss Lund?” asked Badger, who was conducting the case for the government.
”Going on six years.”
”And you have known the prisoner all this time?”
”Of course.”
”You were in at the time of the fire, on Sat.u.r.day?”
”I was.”
”And gave the alarm, did you not?”
”I did.”
Bertha's rising inflection had hardly varied in the last three answers, and her blue eyes were riveted on the lawyer's.
”Won't you tell the court how you were occupied prior to your discovery of the fire?”
Thus directed, Bertha half-inclined her person toward the judge.
”Part of the time I was dusting the study and part of the time I was upstairs.”
”What were you doing upstairs?”
”Nothing, except looking out of the window into the street.”
”What window?”
”Mr. Robert's.”
”And what street?”
”Cazenove street.”
”Was any one else in the house at that time?”
”Not after Ellen went out.”
”You are sure Ellen had gone out?”
”Well, what do you mean by sure?”
”What made you think she had gone out?”
”She told me she was going out. She was dressed in her street dress and I heard the door slam. That's three reasons.”
”You heard the door slam? The front door, I suppose? There is only one door?”
”No, there's the back door, leading into the pa.s.sageway.”
”And where does the pa.s.sageway lead?”
”Why, it runs alongside the house from Cazenove street to Broad.”
The district attorney diverted attention for a moment by making his way to his seat through the crowd. He was the opposite of Badger in everything; the one burly and slack, but with the stamp of moral energy in his bearing; the other immaculate from cravat to cuff borders and athletic if slight in build.
”Was it the back door or the front door you heard slam, Miss Lund?” resumed Badger, continuing to confer in an undertone with the district attorney.
”It was the back door, sir, I suppose.”
”Aren't you sure?”
”Pretty sure.”
”Wasn't it probably the front door?”
”No, it was the back door, I'm positive.”
”Then Ellen went out of the back door and left you and Floyd alone in the house?”
”Yes, sir, Mr. Robert and I were the only ones in.”
”Just when was this slamming of the door, at what time? With reference, I mean, to your own movements and the movements of others in the house?”
”Well, I was up stairs and down, in and out, and Mr. Robert was in the study. I couldn't tell you just when.”
”Very well----”
”And, if it's not improper, I wish to say that I am not here of my own choosing, for as sure as my name is Bertha Lund, Robert Floyd never set that fire.”
This sally was received in silence by the spectators. They looked expectantly toward the judge and the attorneys. Floyd's look was as spirited and firm as ever, as he scanned the faces packed around him, nodding to a lady in the front bench, but letting his eyes dwell oftenest, with a kind of interrogative look, followed by an expression of soft satisfaction, on a younger face. It was golden-haired Emily Barlow, transfixed with interest in the proceedings. Not even the dark visage of the negro in the corner stood out so cameo-like from the mult.i.tude as hers, partly by its sweetness of beauty, but more by the parted lips and eager gaze.
”The witness is not to volunteer opinions, but simply to give the facts she is requested to give, clearly and truthfully, as her oath requires.” This reproof was not harshly spoken by the judge. ”You may continue, Mr. Badger.”
”Mr. Floyd was in the study, then?”
”Yes, sir, he was.”
”Where the fire started?”
”It started in the study.”
”Will you describe to the court, without any omissions, everything you did and everything you saw Mr. Floyd do from the time he opened the study door until you descended the stairway and discovered the room afire?”
”Well, sir, when Mr. Robert unlocked the door----”