“Don’t keep us in suspense, squire,” cried the wounded man, angered by his friend’s silence. “What are you going to do?”
“Nothing, George; nothing, I think. I only hope your accident with the pitchfork will not have serious results—in any shape.”
The policeman nodded a farewell. As they quitted the room they heard Pickering say faintly:
“Now, Betsy, my dear, no more crying. I can’t stand it. Damn it all, one doesn’t get engaged to be married and yelp over it!”
On the landing they saw Kitty, a white shadow, anxious, but afraid to speak.
“Cheer up,” said Beckett-Smythe pleasantly. “This affair looks like ending in smoke.”
Gaining courage from the magistrate’s affability, the girl said brokenly:
“Mr. Pickering and—my—sister—are quite friendly. You saw that for yourself, sir.”
“Gad, yes. They’re going to be—well—er—I was going to say we have quite decided that an accident took place and there is no call for police interference—so long as Mr. Pickering shows progress toward recovery, you understand. There, there! You women always begin to cry, whether pleased or vexed. Bless my heart, let’s get away, Mr. Superintendent.”