“You have said too much or too little, Mr Churton. There is nothing for me now but to consult the police.”
He made a sort of lost motion towards me with his hands. At that moment his wife burst in, and stood with arms akimbo.
“Get out of this,” she cried in an awful masculine voice. “What are you worritting him for with your questions? Who are you? What do you want?”
“It’s very simple,” I said. “I want to know what Ellen Trimmer confessed to him before she died.”
“Then you’ll just pack and go wanting it,” she vociferated. “What’s Ellen Trimmer to him, or him to her, or you to any of us? Get out, do you hear?”
“You’re blocking my way.”
“My dear,” said Mr Churton—“if it’s a question of conscience——”
“Conscience!” she bellowed: “a pretty conscience on my word. Who was it set you up in life, and give you the chance to marry, and something respectabler than your Ellen Trimmers, a baggage that could go dropping you for him, the slut, and no wonder to look at you!”
I fancied that I, for my part, could answer who. But Mr Churton only hung his head on its long neck, like a feeble tulip beaten down under a storm.
“Very well” I said, “if you’ll allow me to pass, I’ll go.”