Mrs. Major paused; shot a stabbing smile at George.
And now my miserable George realised. Now, visible at last, there rushed upon him, grappled him, strangled him, the sinister something whose presence he had scented on entering the apartment. No sound came from this stricken man. He could not speak, nor move, nor think. Rooted he remained; dully gazed at the thin lips whence poured the flood that engulfed and that was utterly to wreck him.
The masterly woman continued. She indicated the rooted figure in the middle of the room, the collapsed heap upon the sofa's edge. “Those two entered. He had a basket. Oh, what were my feelings when out of it he took our darling Rose!”
For the space of two minutes the masterly woman advertised the emotions she had suffered by burying her face in the Rose's coat; rocking gently.
Emerging, she gulped her agitation; proceeded. “I need not repeat again all the dreadful story I heard, Mr. Marrapit? Surely I need not?”
“You need not,” Mr. Marrapit told her. “You need not.”
With a masterly half-smile, expressive of gratitude through great suffering, Mrs. Major thanked him. “Indeed,” she went on, “I did not hear the whole of it. It was so dreadful, I was so horrified, that I think I fainted. Yes, I fainted. But I heard them discuss how he had stolen the Rose so they might marry on the reward when it was big enough. He had kept the darling till then; now it was her turn to take charge of it—”
Mrs. Major ceased with a jerk, drew in her legs preparatory to flight.
For the rooted figure had sprung alarmingly to life. George would not have his darling Mary blackened. He took a stride to Mrs. Major; his pose threatened her. “That's untrue!” he thundered.
“Ho!” exclaimed Mrs. Major. “Ho! A liar to my face! Ho!”