“’Ere?” he cried, pointing to the ground at his feet as if a hatter and his block were sitting there. “Never. I brought it from Italy.”
From below the voices persisted:
“Were you with Miss Harris?” This from Mr. Hamilton.
“Yes, I was.”
“Did she throw an orange?” This from Mr. Hazard.
“Why should any one throw an orange out of a front window?”
Miss Bliss answered that.
“She might. She’s a singer and they do queer things. I knew a singer once and she threw a clock that wouldn’t go into a bathtub full of water.”
This seemed to convince the count of Miss Harris’ guilt.
“She did it. I must see ’er,” he cried, and tried to get past me. I spread my arms across the passage. If he and Miss Harris met in their several fiery states of mind, there would be a riot on the top floor.