Gerald turned round to watch the trial.
“Is the person suspected—supposed to be Nelly Game—in the room?” asked Mr. Jennings, with some surprise. He had expected to see a group of maid-servants.
“Certainly,” said Lord Tottlebury, with a grim smile. And Mrs. Pocklington chuckled.
“Then I certainly can’t,” said Mr. Jennings. And there was an end of that, an end no other than what George had expected. The fat policeman was his sheet-anchor.
The fat policeman, or to give him his proper name, Sergeant Stubbs, unlike Mr. Jennings, was enjoying himself. A trip to London gratis, with expenses on a liberal scale, and an identification at the end—could the heart of mortal constable desire more? Know the girl? Of course he would, among a thousand! It was his business to know people and he did not mean to fail, especially in the service of so considerate an employer. So he walked in confidently, sat himself down, and received his instructions with professional imperturbability.
The ladies stood and smiled at Stubbs. Stubbs sat and peered at the ladies, and, being a man at heart, thought they were a set of as likely girls as he’d ever seen; so he told Mrs. Stubbs afterwards. But which was Nelly Game?
“It isn’t her in the middle,” said Stubbs, at last.
“Then,” said George, “we needn’t trouble Miss Bourne any longer.”
Isabel went and sat down, with a scornful toss of her head, and Laura Pocklington and Neaera stood side by side.
“I feel as if it were the judgment of Paris,” whispered the latter, audibly, and Mrs. Pocklington and Gerald tittered. Stubbs had once been to Paris on business, but he did not see what it had to do with the present occasion, unless indeed it were something about a previous conviction.