Tickle. A little white smoke went slowly over the heads o’ the mob, and that was all that was ever seen of her.
Mrs Nutts. Well, what’s gone can’t be brought back; but it’s a blessed comfort to think of, they’ll hang the husband when they catch him.
Peabody. They can’t, ma’am. By the law of England, Mrs Nutts, they can do nothing to the man.
Mrs Nutts. To be sure, not. I’d forgot. He’s only killed his wife; and what’s a wife? Men make laws, of course; and when they make ’em, don’t they take care o’ themselves? However, we shall have our turn. Yes, yes! the world—as I said to Mrs Biggleswade over the way—the world is going on, and must take us women with it. Of course, Mr Peabody, though you are a policeman, you’ll take the husband’s part; of course. Nevertheless, I should like to know why they can’t hang him? The brute!
Peabody. Now, in the first place, my dear Mrs Nutts——
Nutts. Don’t talk to her in that way: I tell you she’s never been used to it.
Peabody. In the first place, there’s no evidence. Gun-cotton leaves nothing behind it—not a vestige. Certainly there is evidence to prove that one minute there was a woman, in a certain gown, in a certain place; that there was a report: and then there was no woman; nothing more than a little white floating smoke. Now, Mrs Nutts, the law can’t be satisfied with this. Where is the woman? Where’s her remains? The majesty of the English law demands the body to sit upon.
Mrs Nutts. Fiddle-dee—nonsense! There’s plenty of people to swear that the man had a wife, and now he can’t show one: isn’t that enough?
Nosebag. I should say no; because it’s very well known in any court o’ law that wives do sometimes go off without a bit o’ gun-cotton in the matter.
Nutts. So you see, Mrs Nutts, your life is in my hands. I’ve only to make you a present of a nice-prepared cotton gown, and——