“Booked, squire, booked! And no return ticket. I don’t care. I’ve made all arrangements—that is, I’ll have a free mind this time to-morrow—and then, well, I’ll face the music.”
He caught sight of the police officer.
“Hello, Jonas! You there? Come for my last dying depositions, eh? All right. Fire away! Betsy, my lass, leave us for a bit. The nurse can stay. The more witnesses the merrier.”
Betsy arose. There was no fear in her eyes now—only dumb agony. She walked steadily from the room. While Mr. Beckett-Smythe was thanking Providence under his breath that a most distressing task was thus being made easy for him, they all heard a dreadful sob from the exterior landing, followed by a heavy thud. The nurse hurried out. Betsy had fainted.
With a painful effort Pickering raised himself on one arm. His forced gayety gave place to loud-voiced violence.
“Confound you all!” he roared. “Why come here to frighten the poor girl’s life out of her?”
He cursed both the magistrate and Superintendent Jonas by name; were he able to rise he would break their necks down the stairs. The policeman crept out on tip-toe; Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down. Pickering stormed away until the nurse returned.
“Miss Thwaites is better,” she said. “She was overcome by the long strain, but she is with her sister now, and quite recovered.”
Betsy was crying her heart out in Kitty’s arms: fortunately, the sounds of her grief were shut out from their ears. Jonas came back and closed the door. The doomed man sank to the pillow and growled sullenly:
“Now, get on with your business, and be quick over it. I’ll not have Betsy worried again while I have breath left to protest.”