Miss Peake spoke calmly, with none of the excited shrillness of her appearance at the Inquest. Perhaps the environment of her home was soothing. She was a very small woman, of about fifty-five, dressed in the period of the nineties. Her long, tight-sleeved dress was youthful in cut and ornament and probably represented a well-saved relic of her young days. Possibly her mind had never advanced beyond that age—she both looked and spoke like a figure from the Strand Magazine in the days of L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace.
“I was present at the time the outrage was committed on Sir Garth Fratten,” she said, impressively. “I was standing—two lumps, Officer?—at the foot of the Steps at the time, or rather, I should say, half-way between the foot of the Steps and the carriage-way—the new carriage-way, you know—it has all been altered—Germanized—a grave mistake I always feel. I happened to be waiting there, watching the Members on their way from the Cartlon to the House—Mr. Balfour often passes that way—a great man, Officer, a charming speaker, but I fear that he will never be a leader. I saw two gentlemen, evidently Members, coming down the Steps, and the next moment I saw it all. A dastardly outrage, Officer!”
Miss Peake’s voice rose suddenly in a shrill cry of excitement. Her eyes blazed and she rose to her feet, nearly pushing over the tea-table as she did so. Evidently the poor lady’s mind could not stand excitement.
“A brutal attack!” she cried. “Ruffians—a gang of ruffians—Fenians!”
Suddenly she sank back into her chair, looked dazedly about her, and passed her hand over her eyes. After a moment, she spoke again in a dull, level voice.
“The man rushed down the Steps after committing his fell deed,” she said. “I saw him leap into a waiting vehicle and drive away. The villains! The cowards! Nihilists! Radicals!”
Once more the excitement had seized her and she broke into shrill cries, only half intelligible. Poole saw that it was useless to expect any lucid account from her. Waiting only for a quiet moment in which to take his leave, he thanked poor little Miss Griselda for her valuable help, and left her to finish her tea in peace.
“Please tell the Secretary of State that I am at his service at any time,” said Miss Peake as she ushered him out of the door.
CHAPTER XIV.
Sir Garth’s Papers
Although he had had a hard day’s work and it was nearly six o’clock, Poole felt that he had made so little progress that he could not leave things as they were. Consequently, he returned to the Yard, and taking his note-book and a sheet of foolscap, set himself to analyse the evidence that he had obtained during the day. As was only to be expected, there were discrepancies in the accounts of the incident which the various eye-witnesses had given him. In the first place, the “time” was very vague—varying from “some time after six” by Press, to “not before six-thirty” by Wagglebow. The evidence of Tarker and Miss Moon, however, made it fairly certain that the time was well after 6.15. Referring to his note-book Poole discovered that he had not got a definite statement by Mr. Hessel on the subject—he made a note to get it at the first opportunity.