"It's a lie!" he cried.
A big young woman sitting just in front of Joe rose on subdued wings. She was bare-headed, be-shawled, a dark Madonna of English village-life.
"Yes, you are, Alf," she said, and sat down quietly as she had risen.
There was a dramatic silence. Then the Archdeacon started to his feet and pointed with accusing claw like a witch-doctor smelling out a victim.
"I know that woman!" he cawed raucously.
A lady sitting in the front row just under the platform rose.
"So do I," she said.
It was Mrs. Trupp, and her voice, still and pure, fell on the heated air like a drop of delicious rain.
She sat down again.
The Archdeacon too had resumed his seat, very high and mighty; and Bobby Chislehurst was whispering in his ear from behind.