Mrs. Smythe was sitting on the bank wringing the water out of her blouse when Grace came up, the lieutenant standing by and apparently not knowing what he should do in the circumstances. The supervisor’s hair was down over her shoulders and she was half crying, half raging. Grace was filled with regret.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Smythe,” she said, bending over the supervisor. “May I assist you to your feet? You must not sit here, you know. The ground is cold and you are very wet.”
Mrs. Chadsey Smythe blinked at the Overton girl and struggled for words. The words finally came, a torrent of them.
“She did it!” screamed the woman. “She did it on purpose! She set out to mur—”
“Mrs. Smythe, you know better than that,” rebuked Grace.
“Arrest that woman!” commanded Mrs. Smythe.
“Well, I—I don’t know about that. Do you wish to make a charge against her, Madame?”
“Of course. She threw me into the river.”
“But,” protested the officer, “she did no more to you than she did to herself and the others in the car. Of course you may make a complaint to the captain, or to your superior whoever he or she may be, but I do not think this woman can be arrested, because the wreck plainly was an accident.”
“It was not! I tell you she did it on purpose!”