“Hum,” muttered the squire, surveying him with a smile. “A proper trouncing you gave him, too. I shall certainly thrash him now for permitting it. What was the cause of the quarrel?”
“About a girl, sir.”
“You young rascals! A girl! What girl?”
“Perhaps it was all my fault, sir.”
“That is not answering my question.”
“I would rather not tell, sir.”
Then Mr. Beckett-Smythe leaned back in his chair and laughed heartily.
“’Pon my honor,” he said to the superintendent, “these young sparks are progressive. They don’t care what happens, so long as the honor of the lady is safeguarded. My son refused point-blank to say even why he fought. Well, well, Martin, I see you did not come out of the fray scatheless; but you are not brought here because you decorated Frank’s ingenuous countenance. I want you to tell me exactly what took place in the garden when Mr. Pickering was wounded.”
Somewhat reassured, Martin told all he knew, which was not a great deal. The magistrate, who, of course, was only assisting the police inquiry, was perplexed.
“There were others present?” he commented.