"But it's so much better the way they do it now, I mean sending the guilty to the wars to fight in the front lines. Might as well get some use out of them." "True. But why bother killing a husband? Divorcing them is so much easier. Only takes a day and you get half the husband's earnings." "You should know, dear. You've done it enough." "Only seven times." "I thought it was eight?" "I don't count Rodger. The lout killed himself so he wouldn't have to pay me a settlement. Ah, here comes the judge." * * * * * The spectators stood lazily as the judge entered, then reseated themselves and buzzed in anticipation. "Your witness has arrived?" the judge asked. "Yes, Your Honor," the Prosecutor replied. "Then call him." The witness was called and sworn in as the spectators gawked at him eagerly. "Good looking. Dark. Evil eyes though. Black eyes. I like dark eyes, don't you?" "Dark blue coat. Lime green sports shirt. Nice combination. Must have a suit made with those colors." "Nasty look about that fellow. Wouldn't trust him." "Who is he?" "Shhhhhhhhhh!" Isobel d'Larte stared at the witness in fear. "Your name, please," the Prosecutor demanded of the witness. "Andy Kirk." "You are Mr. d'Larte's nephew?" "Yep." "What do you do for a living, Mr. Kirk?" "Anything, but basically I'm an artist." "Is that what you are doing at the present time, Mr. Kirk?" "No. Everybody's an artist today. No room for a good one, a real one." "Then what do you do, Mr. Kirk?" the Prosecutor asked in exasperation. "Don't shout. I didn't ask to come here." "What do you do for a living?" the Prosecutor asked quietly. "Arnaud--Mr. d'Larte--paid me to follow his wife. To spy on her. He paid very well." The spectators gasped happily. "Now we'll hear something," someone said in a stage whisper. The judge rapped for silence. "Why did Mr. d'Larte pay you to follow his wife?" "He thought she had a lover." "But you heard Mrs. d'Larte claim that she did not have a lover." "No, I didn't. How could I? I wasn't here." Laughter rippled through the crowded room and the judge rapped for silence. The Prosecutor frowned angrily. "Mrs. d'Larte said under oath that she did not have a lover." "She lied." "Can you prove that she lied?" "I suppose so." "And they were really lovers?" "Mrs. d'Larte told me that she loved him." "And he loved her I suppose." "Mrs. d'Larte loved him." "How long were they lovers?" "Nearly a month." "I repeat, can you prove it?" "I can tell you who her lover is." "Then by all means do so." "No! Please, no," Isobel d'Larte cried. "I killed my husband." When order had been restored in the court the judge stared down at Isobel. "Am I to understand that you confess to the murder of Arnaud d'Larte?" "Yes," Isobel said softly. "I hated him and I killed him. I killed with the iron statue of Venus. I hit him with it till he died and I hit him with it after he was dead. I killed him."