"The iron statue of Venus, the one found near Mr. d'Larte's body, you found fingerprints on it, did you not?" Sergeant Melot nodded. "Whose fingerprints were they, Sergeant Melot?" "Mrs. d'Larte's." "Your witness," the Prosecutor told the Defense. "No questions," said the Defense. "Why ask questions," a spectator commented. "She's guilty." "Next witness." "Mrs. Abby Watson to the stand please." Abby Watson strode to the witness chair. Her shrew-like eyes flicked sharply towards Isobel d'Larte then away. Her answer to the clerk who swore her in was sharp and positive. "How long have you worked for Mr. d'Larte?" the Prosecutor asked. "Fifteen years." "In your opinion Mr. d'Larte was a good employer?" "The best. A wonderful man, but a lonely one. That woman tricked him into marriage. Played on his loneliness." "Objection." "Objection sustained. Confine yourself to the questions please." "Mr. d'Larte was older than his wife?" the Prosecutor asked. "Eighteen years older." "Was it a happy marriage?" "At first, at least on his part. He was contented, but she seemed restless. Always wanted to go to museums and see paintings, or playing her silly antique records all day. Not content with the government 'Do-It-Yourself' kits. Called them mechanical and expressionless. She insulted Mr. d'Larte's friends time and again. Called them frauds. Said their paintings, books and plays were terrible. Said that real talent was dead. "You said she spent a lot of time in museums?" "I didn't say it, but she did. Every chance she got. She'd be gone for hours." "Which museum? The one commemorating the wars? The Museum of Mechanics?" "None of those. She'd go to the old one on the hill. That horrible thing with the relics of the past in it. The one run by the robots. The one run by the government to remind us of the past when only a few were allowed talent and not everybody like today. But I think she went to the museum for another reason. No one could _really_ be interested in those things they have there." "What do you think she went for, Mrs. Watson?" "To meet her lover. Shortly before he was killed Mr. d'Larte confessed to me that he was of the same opinion." "See, I told you she had a lover," someone whispered. "Old husband, young wife. I just knew there was a lover." "Objection," said the Defense. "There is no proof that Mrs. d'Larte went to the museum to meet a lover. There are only opinions, guesses." "If your honor will permit me to call my next witness I think I can prove that there was a lover," the Prosecutor said. The judge leaned forward in eager anticipation. "Call your witness." "Bella Whychek." A fat, dumpy, flame-haired woman made her way to the witness stand. As she was sworn in she tugged self-consciously at her too tight girdle. "Miss Whychek--" "Mrs. ... I'm a widow." "Mrs. Whychek, would you tell us where you are employed." "Timon's and Sons. I'm a secretary there." "And where is your office located."