She began hysterically to scream and cry.
VII
It was still early in the day when Elsie’s mother came to her at the police-station. Her fat face was white, stained and mottled with tears.
“It seems too bad to be true,” she kept on repeating again and again. “That’s what I said when I heard about poor Horace: too bad to be true. And you in this dreadful place, Elsie, and such a state as you’re in—and no wonder. The whole thing seems too bad to be true.”
“Have they—found anything? Shall I be able to go home soon?” asked Elsie.
“I don’t know, dearie. They’ve got to find out who killed poor Horace, you know. Elsie, you’ve always been a sensible girl. You must tell them all you know, however dreadful to you it is to speak of such things. Or I’ll tell them for you, if you’d rather just have it out with mother. Didn’t you see anyone?”
“Someone flew past, and as I turned to speak to Horace, I saw the blood coming out of his mouth.”
“Who was it flew past?” said Mrs. Palmer.
“I don’t know. It all happened in a flash, like,” said Elsie.
“You and Horace were happy together, weren’t you?”