"Didn't see her go. Noticed her car was gone at four-thirty." "How was she dressed, if you recall?" "Green blouse, brown skirt I think. Anyway I'm sure of the green blouse, she was partial to it for some reason." "Any special accessories that you recall?" "Big shoulder-strap bag. I remember thinking how those things are sort of out of style, but C'lista liked that one because it was roomy, she could carry her field glasses in it. Partial to Nature and stuff like that--bird watching." "Did she have her field glasses that day?" "Didn't see them, Mr. Hunter. Just the bag." "Are there bushes, scrubs, likely places for birds or nests, near the part of the grounds where you had that picnic?" "Yes. Back of the lawn there's a flower garden, and beyond that a sort of half-wild area. Things planted there that more or less take care of themselves--ground-cover, perennials. Pair of catbirds nested there last summer, likely others." "Are you familiar with the perennials in that wild spot?" "With some of them." Maud Welsh cleared her throat and swallowed. "Day-lilies, myrtle--monkshood." "You have seen monkshood growing there, with your own eyes?" "Yes. Mrs. Chalmers pointed it out to me once, wondering if she ought to keep it, spite of the pretty flower it has. Yes, it grows there--I mean it did last August. Of course the police--" "Yes, never mind that. On the afternoon of August 7th, did you see Callista go into that wild garden?" "I did." "Was she then wearing that shoulder-strap bag?" "She was." "Was she alone?" "Yes." "How long did she remain there?" "I don't know for certain. Half an hour later Mrs. Chalmers wanted her to lend a hand with the grill. I called her. When she came--which she didn't right away--it was from there." "Was she still alone?" Edith thought: _She is always alone, Mr. Hunter. Clinging to that fool Jim Doherty, she was alone. The one time when she cried in my arms, she was alone._ "She was alone." "Your witness, Mr. Warner." III Judge Mann watched Cecil Warner approach the witness chair like an old bull: heavy step, flaring nostrils, lowered head, eyes communicating nothing but a brooding truculence. He halted ponderously, an old bull arriving at the dubious barrier of a fence, and--just stood there. Judge Mann's pencil drifted across the scratch pad in a rapid script not much like his normal writing: Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. He grew fully aware of the writing with a partly pleased astonishment: almost a true dissociation. His brother Jack might be interested; he would save the page. It must have been three years since he had last read _Hamlet_.