She pushed up her sleeve, then shuddered violently as she recalled that she had last made use of that same gesture in the tea-shop with Morrison.
“My goodness, did Horace do that? You must have tried him pretty high, I know. How are you going to account for that bruise, young Elsie?”
“Who’s to know about it?”
“Oh, they’ll find out fast enough! They get to know about everything. Look here, did you say that you’d been pushed against the wall by whoever it was who did in poor Horace?”
Elsie nodded, too much stunned even to wonder how her mother had become possessed of this information.
“Very well, then. Those bruises on your arm are where you fell against that wall. Don’t forget. I shall say you showed them to me, and told me about it.”
“Say what—when?” Elsie asked stupidly. “I suppose all this’ll be over before I’m quite mad, and they’ll let me go home to-day.”
Her mother’s fat face puckered up suddenly, and she began to cry with loud, gulping sobs. “I don’t know!” she wailed. “I don’t know.”
“But what—what—for Heaven’s sake, Mother, stop that noise, and tell me what they’re going to do. What is it?” almost shrieked Elsie, striving to fight down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.
“Don’t you understand, you little fool? (God forgive me for speaking like that!) Oh, Elsie, I’m afraid—I’m afraid they’ll—they’ll arrest you—for murder!”