“My good boy,” he said, “I did not choose that my daughter should hear the—er—offensive details of this—er—stabbing affray, or worse, that took place at the inn.”
“But you didn’t mind slighting me in her presence, sir,” was the unexpected retort.
“I am not slighting you. Had I met Mr. Beckett-Smythe and sought information as to this matter, I would still have asked her to go on to the Vicarage.”
This was a novel point of view for Martin. He reddened again.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “Everything has gone wrong with me to-day. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
The vicar deemed him a strange youth, but tacitly accepted the apology, and drew from Martin the story of the night’s doings.
It shocked him to hear that Martin and Frank Beckett-Smythe were fighting in the yard of the “Black Lion” at such an hour.
“How came you to be there?” he said gently. “You do not attend my church, Martin, but I have always regarded Mr. Bolland as a God-fearing man, and your teacher has told me that you are gifted with intelligence and qualities beyond your years or station in life.”
“I was there quite by accident, sir, and I couldn’t avoid the fight.”