They sat down.
"Don't think about it Arthur!" said Mrs. Puckston. But there was a heavier glaze in her eyes as she sewed.
"I won't," said her husband, He concentrated hard for a moment, before slowly moving his head sideways. "Norma, haven't you got a cup of tea for the gentlemen?"
The sewing slid from his wife's lap. "Arthur, I never thought of that. I've never been so bad-mannered in all my born days."
"But please don't…"
"Easy, son," muttered H.M., and gripped Martin's wrist as the latter started to speak. H.M. looked at Puckston, who had ceased to care whether they saw the tears on his face. "You said, Mr. Puckston, you hoped I'd come here. Was it about anything in particular?"
The other started to speak, but fell to brushing the cloth instead.
"Mr. Puckston," said H.M., "this person who — hurt your little girl."
As Mrs. Puckston moved the kettle from the stove-lid, the white-brick kitchen was as still as death. Mrs. Puckston, an iron hook in her hand to remove the stove-lid and see to the fire, did not seem to breathe.
Puckston swallowed. "Yes, sir?"