H.M., taking Martin by' the arm, impelled him down the passage to the far door at the right end. H.M. knocked gently.
"Come in," said a voice which Martin guessed must be Mrs. Puckston's.
Mr. and Mrs. Puckston, whose child had been murdered and hacked last night, were in there. If H.M. had not gripped his arm, Martin would have turned and bolted.
H.M. opened the door.
It was an old-fashioned kitchen-sitting-room, its brick walls. painted white. In what-had once been the immense embrasure of the fireplace, there now stood a big coal cooking-stove with many lids, and a kettle simmering on one of them. In the middle of the room, with a frayed yellow-and-white cloth and an electric light hanging over it, was a table set for an untouched supper.
Arthur Puckston, back to the door, sat on the other side of the table and faced the stove. His freckled bald head, with its little fringe of grey-reddish hair, and his thin drooping muscular shoulders, were motionless. Mrs. Puckston, dark-haired and stoutening, sat in a corner chair and sewed.
Then Puckston looked round.
The tears were running down his face despite his spasmodic blinkings. His eyes remained gentle. He saw who was in the doorway. First startled, then deeply ashamed, he whipped his head away and began swabbing desperately at his eyes with his coat-sleeves. But grief had beaten him. His arms dropped. He did not care.
"Mr. Puckston," said H.M., in so gentle a tone that Martin could not have thought it possible, "I know we're intruding. Will you believe I only came because I know I can help you?"
Mrs. Puckston, tearless but dull-glazed of eye, looked up.