Mrs. Witherby’s eyes glittered. She closed in and plucked him by the sleeve.
“Jumped off the railing, you say? What railing?”
He withdrew the raiment of the law from her desecrating touch, and replied, witheringly.
“That railin’. Hi don’t see no hother—hunless you think Hi means the pearl an’ goldin’ railin’s of ’eaven!—w’ich Hi don’t! The lady comes runnin’ hout, an’ we brings ’im in ’ere. An’ ’e turns hout to be the shoofer wot’s jest got ’ome, an’ was ’avin’ ’is bite.”
He jerked his thumb toward the supper-tray.
“Chauffeur,” Howard repeated. “What made you think he was the chauffeur?”
“Say! Hi’m gettin’ provoked with you! ’Ow do Hi know ’e’s the shoofer? Cos ’e says so! An’ she says so! An’ Hi makes my excuses an’ takes ’er nyme but forgets to take ’is nyme. An’ that’s w’y the chief sends me back ’ere—if you wants to know. Hit’s always reg’lar to get the nyme of a shot party. Tain’t hoften Hi shoots a man. W’en Hi do, they likes to ’ave ’is hidentity.” He touched his hat. “Halfred Marks is my hidentity.”
“But Mrs. Mearely hasn’t any chauffeur. What else...?”
Howard stopped her firmly.
“Mrs. Witherby, this is not the time for—that is to say, the constable has made a stupid mistake. Er—constable, you have made an error. The man’s name is Mills, and he is an entire stranger to all of us. You will please report that to your chief.”