Mr. Stockwell joined the superintendent in appealing to the crowd to disperse, and the crisis passed. In a few minutes the members of the Thwaites family were safe within the portals of the inn, and the schoolroom was empty of all save a few officials and busy reporters.
Françoise held fast to Angèle, but the girl appealed to Martin to accompany her a little way. He yielded, though he turned back before reaching the vicarage.
“Mother and I are coming to tea to-morrow,” she cried as they parted.
“All right,” he replied. “Mind you don’t vex her again.”
“Not I. She will want to hear all about the inquest. It was as good as a play. Wasn’t Françoise funny? Oh, I do wish you had understood her. She called the men ‘sacrés cochons d’Anglais!’ It is so naughty in English.”
On the green, and dotted about the roadway, excited groups discussed the lively episode in the schoolroom. They were rancorous against the Coroner, and not a few boohed as he entered his carriage with Mr. Dane.
“Ay, they’d hang t’ poor lass, t’ pair of ’em, if they could,” shouted a buxom woman.
“Sheäm on ye!” screamed another. “I’ll lay owt ye won’t sleep soond i’ yer beds te-night.”
But these vaporings broke no bones, and the Coroner drove away, glad enough that so far as he was concerned a distasteful experience had ended.
The persistent rain soon cleared loiterers from the center of the village. John Bolland came to the farm while Martin was eating a belated meal.