“Yes, for a minute or two, but not alone.”

“Who was present?”

“My father.”

“Did he ask you again to go back to him on that occasion?”

“Yes.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes.”

“And after that you had a message from your husband before he left London, asking you once more to change your mind and accompany him?”

“Yes.”

“And you did not?”

“No.”

“Now let me take you to the date of January the—er—third”—Dinny breathed again—“that is the day which you spent, from five in the afternoon till nearly midnight, with the co-respondent. You admit doing that?”

“Yes.”

“No passages between you?”

“Only one. He hadn’t seen me for nearly three weeks, and he kissed my cheek when he first came in to have tea.”

“Oh! the cheek again? Only the cheek?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

“So I am sure was he.”

“Possibly.”

“You first spent half an hour alone, after this separation, having—tea?”

“Yes.”

“Your rooms, I think, are in an old mews—a room below, a staircase, a room above—where you sleep?”

“Yes.”

“And a bathroom? Besides the tea I suppose you had a chat?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the ground-floor room.”

“And then did you walk together, chatting, to the Temple, and afterwards to a film and to dinner at a restaurant, during which you chatted, I suppose, and then took a cab back to your rooms, chatting?”

“Quite correct.”

“And then you thought that having been with him nearly six hours, you had still a good deal to say and it was necessary that he should come in, and he came?”

“Yes.”

“That would be past eleven, wouldn’t it?”

“Just past, I think.”

“How long did he stay on that occasion?”

“About half an hour.”

“No passages?”

“None.”

“Just a drink and a cigarette or two, and a little more chat?”

“Precisely.”

“What had you to talk about for so many hours with this young man who was privileged to kiss your cheek?”

“What has anyone to talk about at any time?”

“I am asking you that question.”

“We talked about everything and nothing.”

“A little more explicit, please.”

“Horses, films, my people, his people, theatres—I really don’t remember.”

“Carefully barring the subject of love?”

“Yes.”

“Strictly platonic from beginning to end?”

“I should say so.”

“Come, Lady Corven, do you mean to tell us that this young man, who on your own admission was in love with you, and who hadn’t seen you for nearly three weeks, never once during all those hours yielded to his feelings?”

“I think he told me he loved me once or twice; but he always stuck splendidly to his promise.”

“What promise?”

“Not to make love to me. To love a person is not a crime, it is only a misfortune.”

“You speak feelingly—from your own experience?”

Clare did not answer.

“Do you seriously tell us that you have not been and are not in love with this young man?”

“I am very fond of him, but not in your sense.”

In Dinny flamed up compassion for young Croom listening to all this. Her cheeks went hot, and she fixed her blue eyes on the Judge. He had just finished taking down Clare’s answer; and suddenly she saw him yawn. It was an old man’s yawn, and lasted so long that it seemed never going to end. It changed her mood, and filled her with a sort of pity. He, too, had to listen day after day to long-drawn-out attempts to hurt people, and make them stultify themselves.

“You have heard the enquiry agent’s evidence that there was a light in the upstairs room after you returned with the co-respondent from the restaurant. What do you say to that?”

“There would be. We sat there.”

“Why there, and not downstairs?”

“Because it’s much warmer and more comfortable.”

“That is your bedroom?”

“No, it’s a sitting-room. I have no bedroom. I just sleep on the sofa.”

“I see. And there you spent the time from soon after eleven to nearly midnight with the co-respondent?”

“Yes.”

“And you think there was no harm in that?”

“No harm, but I think it was extremely foolish.”

“You mean that you would not have done so if you had known you were being watched?”

“We certainly shouldn’t.”

“What made you take these particular rooms?”

“Their cheapness.”

“Very inconvenient, wasn’t it, having no bedroom, and nowhere for a servant, and no porter?”

“Those are luxuries for which one has to pay.”

“Do you say that you did not take these particular rooms because there was no one of any kind on the premises?”

“I do. I have only just enough money to live on.”

“No thought of the co-respondent, when you took them?”

“None.”

“Not even just a sidelong thought of him?”

“My Lord, I have answered.”

“I think she has, Mr. Brough.”

“After this you saw the co-respondent constantly?”

“No. Occasionally. He was living in the country.”

“I see, and came up to see you?”

“He always saw me when he did come up, perhaps twice a week.”

“And when you saw him what did you do?”

“Went to a picture gallery or a film; once to a theatre, I think. We used to dine together.”

“Did you know you were being watched?”

“No.”

“Did he come to your rooms?”

“Not again till February the third.”

“Yes, that is the day I am coming to.”

“I thought so.”

“You thought so. It is a day and night indelibly fixed in your mind?”

“I remember it very well.”

“My friend has taken you at length through the events of that day, and except for the hours at Oxford, it seems to have been spent almost entirely in the car. Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And this car was a two-seater, with what, my Lord, is called a ‘dicky.’”

The Judge stirred.

“I have never been in a ‘dicky,’ Mr. Brough, but I know what they are.”

“Was it a roomy, comfortable little car?”

“Quite.”

“Closed, I think?”

“Yes. It didn’t open.”

“Mr. Croom drove and you were seated beside him?”

“Yes.”

“Now when you were driving back from Oxford you have said that this car’s lights went out about half-past ten, four miles or so short of Henley, in a wood?”

“Yes.”

“Was that an accident?”

“Of course.”

“Did you examine the battery?”

“No.”

“Did you know when or how it was last charged?”

“No.”

“Did you see it when it was recharged?”

“No.”

“Then why—of course?”

“If you are suggesting that Mr. Croom tampered with the battery—”

“Just answer my question, please.”

“I AM answering. Mr. Croom is incapable of any such dirty trick.”

“It was a dark night?”

“Very.”

“And a large wood?”

“Yes.”

“Just the spot one would choose on the whole of that journey from Oxford to London?”

“Choose?”

“If one had designed to spend the night in the car.”

“Yes, but the suggestion is monstrous.”

“Never mind that, Lady Corven. You regarded it as a pure coincidence?”

“Of course.”

“Just tell us what Mr. Croom said when the lights went out.”

“I think he said: ‘Hallo! My lights are gone!’ And he got out and examined the battery.”

“Had he a torch?”

“No.”

“And it was pitch dark. I wonder how he did it. Didn’t you wonder too?”

“No. He used a match.”

“And what WAS wrong?”

“I think he said a wire must have gone.”

“Then—you have told us that he tried to drive on, and twice got off the road. It must have been VERY dark?”

“It was, fearfully.”

“I think you said it was YOUR suggestion that you should spend the night in the car?”

“I did.”

“After Mr. Croom had proposed one or two alternatives?”

“Yes; he proposed that we should walk into Henley, and that he should come back to the car with a torch.”

“Did he seem keen on that?”