“Not a strike, sorr!”
“Striking a woman’s more in your line, I suppose. Perhaps you’ll have their Worships believe you never beat your wife. Who was the friend you had been spending the night with?”
Then it transpired that the friend was the genial host of the “Spotted Dog,” and that before visiting that popular house of entertainment Graham had favoured the “Brindled Cow” with his company, and when somebody in the crowd at the back called out “Wheatsheaf,” to the great indignation of half-a-dozen constables, who all called out “Silence in Court,” and glared angrily at a very small boy who began to whimper, Mr. Graham confessed to having had a glass, or maybe, two, ’deed, he wouldn’t swear not three, at the “Wheatsheaf.”
But at this the confusion of the witness was so great that Beaumont knew it to be more damaging than any evidence, and magnanimously forbore to press the question.
“Hadn’t we better get to last night?” suggested Mr. Mayor, mildly.
“I agree with your Worship. But it was desirable that we should know who this injured innocent is that comes here with his whimpering, whining story. And now, Graham, you know Nelly Sullivan?”
“Sure he did, bad cess to her for a squalling, meddling woman!”
“What made you strike Nelly Sullivan when you returned to your lodgings last night?”
Of course he hadn’t struck Nelly. “Was he the man to lift his hand against any woman?”
“Bar your wife, Graham,” reminded Beaumont.