Mrs Potts was the drawing-room lodger, and Mr Martin both dreaded and detested her. He shrank back a step or two. What was she doing in his room? The absence of lunch was bad enough, but this unexpected and undesired company was insult on injury.
Mr Martin bowed, cleared his throat, and prepared to make an elaborate
speech. Mrs Potts interrupted him fiercely.
‘My good sir, this is no time for ceremony—the wailing infant up-stairs and the two children of the house have been stolen since the morning. Mrs Franklin is almost out of her mind with grief, and suspicion points to you.’
‘Good gracious, madam, what do you mean?’ said poor Mr Martin in a limp voice. He sank down on the nearest chair, spreading out his hands on his knees. ‘What do you mean?’ he continued. ‘The children stolen! Who stole them?’
‘Perhaps you can answer that question. Who was it made such an indecent fuss this morning because a poor fatherless and motherless babe cried? Who threatened to leave if that same poor babe wasn’t sent to the workhouse? Answer me that, Mr Martin, and then tell me
if you know nothing of the fate of the hapless innocents.’
Mr Martin looked cautiously round at the door, which was slightly ajar. He got up softly and shut it. Then he advanced gently across the room and came up close to Mrs Potts.
‘Answer me this,’ he said. ‘Did you like it, yourself?’
‘Did I like what? Good gracious, the man frightens me.’