the desk with a silver paper-cutter. A row of dingy witnesses fidgeted on the front benches, waiting for the cases in which they were interested to be called. The clock ticked. Some one whispered. A clerk pounded for order. Case followed case. The heat was stifling and the odour unspeakable. It was nearly twelve o'clock before the driver of the truck, a burly Irishman, was called to the stand. The chauffeur of the taxi in which Alice had been driving began his story in so low a tone that Harold and Alice could not catch a single word. The judge never looked up. He continued to fuss with his papers and to tap the desk with his silver paper-cutter. The policeman was called before the bench and corroborated the testimony of the taxi-driver. He, too, spoke in a low monotone, but it was possible to hear a part of what he said: the truck-driver had turned to the left.
Miss Blake! called the clerk.
Alice, blushing furiously, rose, stumbled, tottered to the witness-stand. She could have felt no worse had she been on trial for murder. Her eyes were shut tight, and she held a handkerchief to her dry lips.
Do you solemnly swear that you will tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?
I do.
Name?
Alice Blake, she scarcely whispered.
