“No; but how can you dare threaten your mother?”
“I would dare anything rather than be kept in the house—away from you.”
Frank Beckett-Smythe, sitting near his father, was wondering dully why he had been such a fool as to incur severe penalties for the sake of this “silly kid,” who was now ogling his rival and whispering coyly in that rival’s ear. Martin was welcome to her, for all he cared. No girl was worth the uneasiness of the chair he occupied, for his father’s hunting-crop had fallen with such emphasis that he felt the bruises yet.
The jury returned. They had been absent half an hour. Mr. Webster was flustered—that was perceptible instantly. He, as foreman, had to deliver the finding.
“Have you agreed as to your verdict?” said the Coroner.
“We have.”
“And it is?”
“Not guilty!”
“What are you talking about? This is not a criminal court. You are asked to determine how George Pickering met his death.”
“I beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Webster. He turned anxiously to his colleagues. Some of them prompted him.