The doctor rubbed his hands and laughed. There was a suggestion of comedy in Sweetlips Kind's attitude, notwithstanding that he was playing with the issues of life and death. However, he had learned all that he wished to learn, since he now knew that the verdict had been given adverse to Herries, that the reward had been increased, and that the accused man himself was still safe in his hiding-place.
The stream of people and vehicles grew thinner, and it would seem that very shortly the village would again be left to its desolation, now that the sensation was at an end. Elspeth supplied the doctor with more information.
"Sir Simon's body is to be taken to Tarhaven to-night," she said, "and he is to be buried in three days. Miss Tedder agrees to give one hundred pounds to Mrs. Narby, for the damage done to the inn by the murder having been committed there."
The doctor smiled inwardly, thinking of his interview with Ritson, and of the small chance Maud Tedder had of paying six hundred pounds. However, he did not wish to complicate matters further, by explaining the disappointment awaiting the presumed heiress, and merely answered the question in the same vein.
"I should think that the crime had increased the popularity of the 'Marsh Inn,'" said he with some grimness. "Probably Mrs. Narby has never had such good customers since she took up the trade. It's an ill wind that blows no one any good, Elspeth."
"She has sold out nearly all her liquor," the girl informed him. "And as there was scarcely anything to do, she allowed me to come away and visit Mrs. Kind. I wish you would come also, doctor. Rachel is still weak."
"I'll come," replied Browne, mechanically, as he was keeping his eye on a tri-car--Lagonda make--which was slowly surging past them. The next minute he swore loudly, for, although there was ample room, the chauffeur insisted on crushing both himself and Elspeth against the barbed wire fence, with painful results. "Here, confound you," cried the doctor irritably. "Look out where you are going."
The occupant--the sole one besides the chauffeur--was a dark-complexioned woman in the prime of life, with a haughty face, and quite an aristocratic air. She was richly and fashionably dressed in some lustreless black material, which she wore with infinite grace. From her large, melting, dark eyes, and her olive complexion, together with the strange fact that she was smoking a cigarette in public, Browne thought that she was a Spaniard--a foreigner at least. But she appeared to understand English, for on hearing his none too gentle language, she turned her proud face in his direction, and taking the cigarette from between her full red lips, flung it fairly in his face. Then at a word from her--a foreign word--the car shot forward down the road, leaving a vile smell behind. In another minute, the Lagonda was speeding towards the station, so rapidly that Browne was unable to follow, much as he wanted to. However, he shook his fist, and picked up the stump of the cigarette, which had fallen at his feet.
"I wish I had caught sight of the number of that beastly machine," snapped the irascible little man. "I'd bring that woman into court and have her fined. Good Lord, to think that this--this," he shook the cigarette stump in Elspeth's face,--"should be thrown at me. I wish I could,--hullo!" he stopped and examined the cigarette earnestly. "Tangerian! Tangerian, as I'm a sinner."
"What do you mean?" asked Elspeth, astonished at his expression.