There was a murmur around the room. They also were growing impatient.
Judge Hardie leaned forward to speak.
Rathbone ignored him and hastened on. He did not want to lose what little attention he had by being interrupted.
"You were distressed," he continued, his voice a tittle louder. "You had on several occasions asked Miss Barrymore to marry you, and she had refused you, apparently in the foolish belief that Sir Herbert had something he could offer her. Which, as you say, is patently absurd. You must have felt frustrated by her perversity. It was ridiculous, self-destructive, and quite unjust."
Geoffrey's fingers tightened again on the railing of the witness box and he leaned farther forward.
The creaking and rustling of fabric stopped as people realized what Rathbone was about to say.
"It would have made any man angry," Rathbone went on silkily. "Even a man with a less violent temper than yours. And yet you say you did not quarrel over it? It seems you do not have a violent temper after all. In fact, it seems as if you have no temper whatsoever. I can think of very few men, if any"-he pulled a very slight face, not quite of contempt-"who would not have felt their anger rise over such treatment."
The implication was obvious. His honor and his manhood were in question.
There was not a sound in the room except the scrape of Lovat-Smith's chair as he moved to rise, then changed his mind.
Geoffrey swallowed. "Of course I was angry," he said in a choked voice. "But I did not quarrel violently. I am not a violent man."
Rathbone opened his eyes very wide. There was total silence in the room except for Lovat-Smith letting out his breath very slowly.
"Well of course violence is all relative," Rathbone said smoothly. "But I would have thought your attack upon Mr. Archibald Purbright, because he cheated you at a game of billiards-frustrating, of course, but hardly momentous- that was violent, was it not? If your friends had not restrained you, you would have done the man a near-fatal injury."
Geoffrey was ashen, shock draining him.
Rathbone gave him no time.
"Did you not lose your temper similarly with Miss Barrymore when she behaved with such foolishness and refused you yet again? Was that really so much less infuriating to you than losing a game of billiards to a man everyone knew was cheating anyway?"
Geoffrey opened his mouth but no coherent sound came.
"No." Rathbone smiled. "You do not have to answer that! I quite see that it is unfair to ask you. The jury will come to their own decisions. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. I have no further questions."
Lovat-Smith rose, his eyes bright, his voice sharp and clear.
"You do not have to answer it again, Mr. Taunton," he said bitterly. "But you may if you chose to. Did you murder Miss Barrymore?"
"No! No I did not!" Geoffrey found speech at last. "I was angry, but I did her no harm whatsoever! For God's sake." He glared across at the desk. "Stanhope killed her. Isn't it obvious?"
Involuntarily everyone, even Hardie, looked at Sir Herbert. For the first time Sir Herbert looked profoundly uncomfortable, but he did not avert his eyes, nor did he blush. He looked back at Geoffrey Taunton with an expression which seemed more like frustration and embarrassment than guilt.
Rathbone felt a surge of admiration for him, and in that moment a renewed dedication to seeing him acquitted.
"To some of us." Lovat-Smith smiled patiently. "But not all-not yet. Thank you, Mr. Taunton. That is all. You may be excused."
Geoffrey Taunton climbed down the steps slowly, as if he were still uncertain if he should, or could add something more. Then finally he realized the opportunity had slipped, if it was ever there, and he covered the few yards of the floor to the public benches in a dozen strides.
The first witness of the afternoon was Berenice Ross Gilbert. Her very appearance caused a stir even before she said anything at all. She was calm, supremely assured, and dressed magnificently. It was a somber occasion, but she did not choose black, which would have been in poor taste since she was mourning no one. Instead she wore a jacket of the deepest plum shot with charcoal gray, and a huge skirt of a shade similar but a fraction darker. It was wildly flattering to her coloring and her age, and gave her an air both distinguished and dramatic. Rathbone could hear