by an earthquake just then, he would have watched the toppling houses with equanimity.
“I suppose you don’t wish to stop here now?” he said to Angèle.
The girl was sobbing bitterly. Her small body shook as though each gulp were a racking cough. She could not answer. He placed his arm around her and led her to the gate. While they were crossing the yard the people from the hotel crowded into the garden. The man with the lamp had reached the back of the house across the bowling green, and a stalwart farmer had caught Betsy Thwaites by the wrist. The blood-stained knife fell from her fingers. She moaned helplessly in disjointed phrases.
“It’s all overed now. God help me! Why was I born?”
Already a crowd was surging into the hotel through the front door. Martin guided his trembling companion to the right; in a few strides they were clear of the fair, only to run into Mrs. Saumarez’s German chauffeur.
He was not in uniform; in a well-fitting blue serge suit and straw hat, he looked more like a young officer in mufti than a mechanic. He was the first to recognize Angèle, and was so frankly astonished that he bowed to her without lifting his hat.
“You, mees?” he cried, seemingly at a loss for other words.
Angèle recovered her wits at once. She said something which Martin could not understand, though he was sure it was not in French, as the girl’s frequent use of that language was familiarizing his ears with its sounds. As a matter of fact, she spoke German, telling the chauffeur to mind his own business, and she would mind hers; but if any talking were done her tongue might wag more than his.
At any rate, the man did then raise his hat politely and walk on. The remainder of the road between Elmsdale and The Elms was deserted. Martin hardly realized the pace at which he was literally dragging his companion homeward until she protested.
“Martin, you’re hurting my arm! What’s the hurry?.. Did she really kill him?”
“She said so. I don’t know,” he replied.
“Who was she?”
“Kitty Thwaites’s sister, I suppose. I never saw her before. They were not bred in this village.”
“And why did she kill him?”
“How can I tell?”
“She had a knife in her hand.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps she killed him because she was jealous.”
“Perhaps.”
“Martin, don’t be angry with me. I didn’t mean any harm. I was only having a lark. I did it just to tease you – and Evelyn Atkinson.”
“That’s all very fine. What will your mother say?”
The quietude, the sound of her own voice, were giving the girl courage. She tossed her head with something of contempt.
“She can say nothing. You leave her to me. You saw how I shut Fritz’s mouth. What was the name of the man who was killed?”
“George Pickering.”
“Ah. He walked down the garden with Kitty Thwaites.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. When I get in I can tell Miss Walker and Françoise all about it. They will be so excited. There will be no fuss about me being out. V’là la bonne fortune!”
“Speak English, please.”
“Well, it is good luck I was there. I can make up such a story.”
“Good luck that a poor fellow should be stabbed!”
“That wasn’t my fault, was it? Good-night, Martin. You fought beautifully. Kiss me!”
“I won’t kiss you. Run in, now. I’ll wait till the door opens.”
“Then I’ll kiss you. There! I like you better than all the world – just now.”
She opened the gate, careless whether it clanged or not. Martin heard her quick footsteps on the gravel of the short drive. She rattled loudly on the door.
“Good-night, Martin – dear!” she cried.
He did not answer. There was some delay. Evidently she had not been missed.
“Are you there?” She was impatient of his continued coldness.
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you speak, silly?”
The door opened with the clanking of a chain. There was a woman’s startled cry as the inner light fell on Angèle. Then he turned.
Not until he reached the “Black Lion” and its well-lighted area did he realize that he was coatless and hatless. Jim Bates had vanished with both of these necessary articles. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound! There would be a fearful row, and the thrashing would be the same in any case.
He avoided the crowd, keeping to the darker side of the street. A policeman had just come out of the inn and was telling the people to go away. All the village seemed to have gathered during the few minutes which had elapsed since the tragedy took place. He felt strangely sorry for Betsy Thwaites. Would she be locked up, handcuffed, with chains on her ankles? What would they do with the knife? Why should she want to kill Mr. Pickering? Wouldn’t he marry her? Even so, that was no reason he should be stabbed. Where did she stick him? Did he quiver like Absalom when Joab thrust the darts into his heart?
At last he ran up the slight incline leading to the White House; there was a light in the front kitchen. For one awful moment he paused, with a finger on the sneck; then he pressed the latch and entered.
John Bolland, grim as a stone gargoyle, wearing his Sunday coat and old-fashioned tall hat, was leaning against the massive chimneypiece. Mrs. Bolland, with bonnet awry, was seated. She had been crying. A frightened kitchenmaid peeped through the passage leading to the back of the house when the door opened to admit the truant. Then she vanished.
There was a period of chill silence while Martin closed the door. He turned and faced the elderly couple, and John Bolland spoke:
“So ye’ve coom yam, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An’ at a nice time, too. Afther half-past ten! An hour sen yer muther an’ me searched high and low for ye. Where hev ye bin? Tell t’ truth, ye young scamp. Every lie’ll mean more skin off your back.”
Mrs. Bolland, drying her eyes, now that Martin had returned, noticed his disheveled condition. His face was white as his shirt, and both were smeared with blood. A wave of new alarm paled her florid cheeks. She ran to him.
“For mercy’s sake, boy, what hev ye bin doin’? Are ye hurt?”
“No, mother, not hurt. I fought Frank Beckett-Smythe. That is all.”
“T’ squire’s son. Why on earth – ”
“Go to bed, Martha,” said John, picking up a riding
