soft mouth opening. He was regarding her with a beaming and humorous quirk which, to anyone less under his spell than Joyce Ellis, might have seemed almost horrible.
"The prosecution haven't got a leg to stand on?" she cried.
"Exactly."
"Don't make fun of me! Please don't make fun of me!"
Butler was genuinely hurt. "Do you think I'd make fun of you, my dear? I mean exactly what I say."
"But the evidence before the magistrate ..." She searched her mind. "You weren't before the magistrate!"
"No. But my junior was."
"And as for—for preparing a case to defend me "
"Acushla!" he chided her, with Dublin again tinging his voice. "I've already prepared your defence. I've been out at Mrs. Taylor's house, and questioned the witnesses. That's why I want you to stop worrying."
"But suppose you're wrong!"
"I am never wrong," said Butler.
He did not say this in the least arrogantly, though intellectual arrogance was at the root of it. He stated a fact as simply as he might have said he always spent his holidays in the south of France.
Joyce's mind was befuddled, whirling with only a few coherent thoughts. She was quite innocent; she really hadn't killed Mrs. Taylor. But this, to the impassive faces and pointing fingers which hemmed her into a corner, hadn't seemed to matter. She had raged and screamed —inwardly; never letting it show—against the filthy injustice of it. And now. . . .
It was not quite true, as Patrick Butler believed, that she had fallen in love with him. But it was as nearly true as makes no difference, and a few more meetings would make it desperately true. To her he seemed godlike, almost like . . . and again she traced designs on the table. She would do anything for him, anything to preserve his good opinion! Her heart beat so suffocatingly that she could hardly see him.
Butler laughed.
"Mind you," he pointed out, "it's not that I can't be v^ong about other things. I can be wrong about backing a horse. I can be wrong, God knows, about making an investment. I can even be wrong, though seldom, about a woman."
Joyce, despite her position, with the hangman almost touching her shoulder, felt a stab of jealousy.
"But I'm never wrong, believe me, about the outcome of a trial or in sizing up witnesses. Now!"
Here Butler's tone sharpened, and he leaned forward.
"There are just two points, vital to your defence, that I want to have clear before I go."
"Go?" repeated Joyce. She looked round the room. "Oh! Yes! Of course you've got to go." And she shivered.
"The first point," Butler went on, "is about the bell-push hanging over Mrs. Taylor's bed."
"Yes?"
"I've seen it, you know. As you say, it's a white button-bulb, on a long white wire. It hangs above and at one side behind a brown walnut bed, from the 'sixties or 'seventies, with a high scrolled headboard and peaked top. When you saw Mrs. Taylor dead in the morning, you say the bell-push was hanging almost against her cheek?"
"Yes; that's true!"
"Good!" Butler agreed with relish. "But, when you put her to bed the night before"—he leaned farther forward across the table—"where was the bell-push then? Was it hanging near her, or had it got swung round behind the bed?"
Fiercely Joyce searched her memory. "Mr. Butler, I honestly don't remember."
"Think, now! Surely you'd have noticed its position automatically? In case she called you during the night?"
"No. Because she never did call me during the night. Mrs. Taylor honestly thought she never got a wink of sleep—Alice will tell you that.
because Alice was in the house before Mrs. Taylor employed me—but actually she slept like a log."
"Think!" insisted Butler, with his hypnotic blue eyes on her. "Picture the room! The yellow-striped wallpaper, and the old sitting-room furniture, and the bed! Where was that bell-push?"
Joyce did her best.
"I've got a vague sort of impression," she answered honestly, "that it was swung round behind the bed. Mrs. Taylor gestured a lot when she talked. But I
"The prosecution haven't got a leg to stand on?" she cried.
"Exactly."
"Don't make fun of me! Please don't make fun of me!"
Butler was genuinely hurt. "Do you think I'd make fun of you, my dear? I mean exactly what I say."
"But the evidence before the magistrate ..." She searched her mind. "You weren't before the magistrate!"
"No. But my junior was."
"And as for—for preparing a case to defend me "
"Acushla!" he chided her, with Dublin again tinging his voice. "I've already prepared your defence. I've been out at Mrs. Taylor's house, and questioned the witnesses. That's why I want you to stop worrying."
"But suppose you're wrong!"
"I am never wrong," said Butler.
He did not say this in the least arrogantly, though intellectual arrogance was at the root of it. He stated a fact as simply as he might have said he always spent his holidays in the south of France.
Joyce's mind was befuddled, whirling with only a few coherent thoughts. She was quite innocent; she really hadn't killed Mrs. Taylor. But this, to the impassive faces and pointing fingers which hemmed her into a corner, hadn't seemed to matter. She had raged and screamed —inwardly; never letting it show—against the filthy injustice of it. And now. . . .
It was not quite true, as Patrick Butler believed, that she had fallen in love with him. But it was as nearly true as makes no difference, and a few more meetings would make it desperately true. To her he seemed godlike, almost like . . . and again she traced designs on the table. She would do anything for him, anything to preserve his good opinion! Her heart beat so suffocatingly that she could hardly see him.
Butler laughed.
"Mind you," he pointed out, "it's not that I can't be v^ong about other things. I can be wrong about backing a horse. I can be wrong, God knows, about making an investment. I can even be wrong, though seldom, about a woman."
Joyce, despite her position, with the hangman almost touching her shoulder, felt a stab of jealousy.
"But I'm never wrong, believe me, about the outcome of a trial or in sizing up witnesses. Now!"
Here Butler's tone sharpened, and he leaned forward.
"There are just two points, vital to your defence, that I want to have clear before I go."
"Go?" repeated Joyce. She looked round the room. "Oh! Yes! Of course you've got to go." And she shivered.
"The first point," Butler went on, "is about the bell-push hanging over Mrs. Taylor's bed."
"Yes?"
"I've seen it, you know. As you say, it's a white button-bulb, on a long white wire. It hangs above and at one side behind a brown walnut bed, from the 'sixties or 'seventies, with a high scrolled headboard and peaked top. When you saw Mrs. Taylor dead in the morning, you say the bell-push was hanging almost against her cheek?"
"Yes; that's true!"
"Good!" Butler agreed with relish. "But, when you put her to bed the night before"—he leaned farther forward across the table—"where was the bell-push then? Was it hanging near her, or had it got swung round behind the bed?"
Fiercely Joyce searched her memory. "Mr. Butler, I honestly don't remember."
"Think, now! Surely you'd have noticed its position automatically? In case she called you during the night?"
"No. Because she never did call me during the night. Mrs. Taylor honestly thought she never got a wink of sleep—Alice will tell you that.
because Alice was in the house before Mrs. Taylor employed me—but actually she slept like a log."
"Think!" insisted Butler, with his hypnotic blue eyes on her. "Picture the room! The yellow-striped wallpaper, and the old sitting-room furniture, and the bed! Where was that bell-push?"
Joyce did her best.
"I've got a vague sort of impression," she answered honestly, "that it was swung round behind the bed. Mrs. Taylor gestured a lot when she talked. But I
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