“Have you that letter?” asked the Coroner.
“Yes,” interposed Mr. Stockwell. “Here it is.”
He handed forward a document. A buzz of whispered comment arose. In compliance with Dr. Magnus’s request, Betsy identified it listlessly. Then it was read aloud. Apart from mistakes in spelling, it ran as follows:
“Dear Miss Thwaites.—This is to let you know that George Pickering is carrying on with your sister Kitty. He has promised to meet her here on Monday. He has engaged a bedroom here. You ought to come and stop it. I inclose P.O. for one pound toward your fare.—Yours truly, Fred Marshall, groom, ‘Black Lion,’ Elmsdale.”
The fact that this meddlesome personage had sent Betsy her railway fare became known now for the first time. A hiss writhed through the court.
“Silence!” yelled a police sergeant, glaring around with steely eyes.
“There must be no demonstrations of any sort here,” said the Coroner sternly. “Well, Mrs. Pickering, you traveled to Elmsdale?”
“Yes.”
“With what purpose in view?”
“George had promised to marry me. Kitty knew this quite well. I thought that my presence would put an end to any courtship that was going on. It was very wrong.”