But the onslaught tarried. Almost it seemed as if Hector Brunton were going to leave that cross-examination, on which the whole case hung, to his junior. For now Hector Brunton heard, louder than the whisper of conscience, the very whisper of God. "Thou art the man," whispered God; "_thou_ art the murderer." * * * * * The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the woman in the dock, and his courage failed before the accusing glance of her. The "hanging prosecutor" looked at the judge, at the massed spectators; and his heart quailed before the doubting glances of them. Then the "hanging prosecutor" looked at his enemy; and rage, the rage of the lusting male, took him by the throat. God's whisper forgotten, man's duty forgotten, all save this one last chance of vengeance forgotten; he rose, heavy as the wounded bull, to his ungainly feet. His brain, the cold sure-functioning legal brain, had not yet failed. He still knew his strength. But a red mist blinded his eyes, and through that red mist he saw, not Lucy Towers but Aliette; Aliette, whom every cheated fiber of his body yearned to torture--and, torturing, possess. "You admit that you shot your husband?" The words--grim, bitter, devil-prompted--grated in Brunton's throat. "Yes." "You admit that you said, just after you had shot him, that you were not sorry for the deed?" "That's written down." "Answer my question, please. Do you admit that you said, just after your husband's death at your hands, that you were not sorry you had killed him?" "That's written down," repeated Lucy Towers stubbornly. And the stubbornness sent a chill through the red mist; a chill that pierced to Hector Brunton's very marrow. Thus--thus stubborn and unwrithing--thus clear-eyed and contemptuous, had this same woman outfaced him, long and long ago in the bright, miserable drawing-room at Lancaster Gate. "You have admitted"--there was a singing in the K.C.'s ears; he could hardly hear his own voice--"that you love your cousin, Robert Fielding. I put it to you that you are Robert Fielding's mistress." "No." "I put it to you that you went to Robert Fielding's room nightly." "It's a lie." "I put it to you that ever since Robert Fielding came to live at 25 Laburnum Grove you have been in the habit of misconducting yourself with him." "It's a lie." "I put it to you"--God! if only he could make her writhe; if only he could see one stab of pain twitch those cheeks--"that you love Robert Fielding." "Not in the way you're trying to make out." "I put it to you that it was because of your love for Robert Fielding that you shot your husband." "No." "Then why did you shoot him?" "My lord,"--Cavendish's voice--"I protest. This is outrageous." "I'm afraid, Mr. Cavendish,"--Heber's voice--"I must allow the question." "Why did you shoot your husband?" Brunton heard his own voice, very faint through the buzz at his ears.