He sipped the wine, wondering dimly what Frank Beckett-Smythe was enduring and how he would explain that black eye. He was about to go upstairs, when hasty steps sounded without, and Bolland entered with a policeman.
This was the village constable, and, of course, well known to all. During the feast other policemen came from neighboring villages, but the local officer was best fitted to conduct inquiries into a case requiring measures beyond a mere arrest. His appearance at this late hour created a fresh sensation.
“Martin,” said the farmer gravely, “did ye surely hear Kitty Thwaites say that Betsy had killed Mr. Pickering?”
“Yes, sir; I did.”
“And ye heerd Betsy admit it?”
“Oh, yes—that is, if Betsy is the woman with the knife.”
“There!” said Bolland, turning to the policeman. “I telt ye so. T’ lad has his faults, but he’s nae leear; I’ll say that for him.”
The man took off his helmet and wiped his forehead, for the night was close and warm.
“Well,” he said, “I’ll just leave it for the ‘Super’ te sattle. Mr. Pickerin’ sweers that Betsy never struck him. She ran up tiv him wi’ t’ knife, an’ they quarrelled desperately. That he don’t deny. She threatened him, too, an’ te get away frev her he was climin’ inte t’ stackyard when he slipped, an’ a fork lyin’ again’ t’ fence ran intiv his ribs.”
“Isn’t he dead, then?” exclaimed Mrs. Bolland shrilly.