“Not he, ma’am, and not likely te be. He kem to as soon as he swallowed some brandy, an’ his first words was, ‘Where’s Betsy?’ He was fair wild when they telt him she was arrested. He said it was all the fault of that flighty lass, Kitty, an’ that a lot of fuss was bein’ made about nowt. I didn’t know what te deä. Beäth women were fair ravin’, and said all soarts o’ things, but t’ upshot is that Betsy is nussin’ Mr. Pickerin’ now until t’ doctor comes frae Nottonby.”
He still mopped his head, and his glance wandered to the goodly cask in the corner.
“Will ye hev a pint?” inquired Bolland.
“Ay, that I will, Mr. Bolland, an’ welcome.”
“An’ a bite o’ bread an’ meat?” added Mrs. Bolland.
“I doan’t min’ if I do, ma’am.”
A glance at a maid produced eatables with lightning speed. Mary feared lest she should miss a syllable of the night’s marvels.
The policeman had many “bites,” and talked while he ate. Gradually the story became lucid and consecutive.
Fred, the groom, was jealous of Pickering’s admiration for Kitty. Having overheard the arrangement for a meeting on Monday, he wrote to Betsy, sending her the information in the hope that she would come from Hereford and cause a commotion at the hotel.
He expected her by an earlier train, but she did not arrive until 9:20 P.M., and there was a walk of over two miles from the station.