Not me, mum. And I’ve got hold of the constable ’ere, Mr. Topping—he’s going to sit up with me, for company’s sake.
Sir Tristram.
Hatcham.
Yes, Sir Tristram. [Coming forward mysteriously.] Why, bless you and the lady, sir—supposin’ the fire at the “Swan” warn’t no accident!
Georgiana.
Eh?
Hatcham.
Supposin’ it were inciderism—and supposin’ our ’orse was the hobject.
Sir Tristram.