Bourke was on the alert in an instant. “The case for the prosecution has closed,” he said. “This is by special permission of the Court,” replied the district attorney, coldly. As Honora ascended the stand there was a deep murmur of admiration. She looked like an angel, nothing less. She wore a white lawn frock, girt with a blue sash; a large white leghorn lined with azure velvet, against which the baby gold of her hair shone softly. Her great blue eyes had the clear calm serenity of a young child. Patience drew her breath in a series of short gasps. Bourke sat with clenched hands. “We understand,” said the district attorney, severely, “that you did not tell all you knew the other day, and that you have signified your willingness to now tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Is this true?” Honora bowed her head with an expression of deep humility, as a child might that had been justly rebuked. “You had not slept at all upon that fatal night?” “No.” “Your door was open?” “Yes.” “You did see somebody enter the lavatory?” “Yes.” “Whom did you see?” There was a moment’s breathless silence, during which Patience wondered if a clock had ever ticked so loudly, or if the sun had ever shone with so vicious a glare. “Whom did you see?” repeated the district attorney. “The prisoner.” “What did she do?” “She dropped some thirty or forty drops of morphine, I should say, then half filled the glass with water, as usual.” “You did not see the deceased go to the lavatory that night.” “No.” “Nor any one else until the defendant called you?” “No.” “That is all.” Mr. Bourke sprang to his feet, his nostrils dilating, his fine face quivering with unassumed scorn and indignation. “You admit that you perjured yourself the other day?” “I could not make up my mind to—” “Never mind what you had not made up your mind to do. You admit that you perjured yourself?” “Yes,” gently. “That in other words you lied.” “Yes, sir.” Her voice was like the quiver of a violin. “What proof are we to have that you are not lying now?” “I am not lying. My conscience gave me no rest.” “It will give you more, I suppose, if you will have succeeded in swearing away the life of an innocent woman. Yes, yes!—Exactly how long did Mrs. Peele remain in the lavatory?” “I cannot remember. Five or ten minutes.” “State the exact time.” “Perhaps five.” “And a few moments later when she ran into your room you pretended to be asleep: Why did you assume sleep; what reason had you for lying at that time?” “I had dropped off.” “You had been sufficiently wide awake five minutes before to note precisely all these other things, and then had promptly fallen into a sound sleep. Is that your usual habit?” “Yes, sir.” “Did you speak to the prisoner when she came into the lavatory?” “No.” “Were not you in the habit of holding a conversation with her upon such occasions?” “Yes, sir.” “Why did you not address her on that night?”