the fearlessness of the defense. From the prosecution came low growls of content. They were to be fed at last. In anticipation they licked their chops.
But the excellence of the impression dwindled. In the direct, Annandale denied, of course, that he had committed the murder, denied that he had ever contemplated it, swearing that to the best of his recollection he had made no threat at all.
“To the best of your recollection,” Orr repeated after him. “Now please tell me, had anything occurred that night to impair your memory in any way?”
“Well—er—yes. Yes. I had been drinking.”
“Had you any animosity toward the deceased?”
“Toward Loftus? None whatever. On the contrary, he was my best friend.”
Peacock jumped. “I ask that that be stricken out.”
Quietly Orr continued: “Had you known Loftus long?”
“All my life.”
“Was he a friend of yours?”
“An intimate friend.”
Orr turned to Peacock. “Your witness.”
Peacock jumped again. “You say that on the night of the murder you had been drinking. Were you drunk?”
Paternally the Recorder looked over and down. “The witness need not answer that unless—”