Yet Mrs. Benson might have triumphed if she would. Sanchia, at the cottage door, was met by the anxious tenant of it with whom Struan lodged. “He's not here, Miss,” she was told, and then, “oh, Miss, they've took him away. The Sergeant's come for him and took him. And we hear—” There had been no stopping her, but by Sanchia's way.
She walked into the cottage and put up her veil. She showed a pale, sad face. “How dreadful! I must write a note. Will you let me write here, and leave it with you—to give him when he comes?”
She wrote in pencil, “My dear Struan, I am very sorry. You made me angry, but I'm sorry now. I came to say Good-bye, as I am going away. Mrs. Benson is with me. See Mr. Menzies when you can. He has promised to help you, and, of course, I will too, if I can.—Yours always, S. J. P.” With the fold of the envelope to her tongue she paused, reflective. Then she took the note out again, read it over, and ran her pencil through the last two letters of her signature. And taking two Parma violets from the knot at her breast—a recent gift from Wanless—she put them within the paper. Thus she did deliberately—as the Fates would have her. Addressing “Mr. S. Clyde, by Mrs. Broughton,” she gave her letter in charge. “Be sure to give it him when he comes back,” she said. Then she and her protector were driven to the station.
There was a full bench, a crowded court when the accused was brought in. The hush that preceded him and the buzz when he stood up made Ingram set his teeth. The reporters, with racing pen, cleared the ground. Thus the world might read of “The Squire of Wanless, every inch a soldier,” in one journal, and of “Nevile Ingram, Esquire, of Wanless Hall,” in another. There are no politics in police reports, but broadcloth is respectable. The prisoner was described as “Struan Glyde, 23, a sickly-looking young man, who exhibited symptoms of nervousness.” It was allowed that he spoke “firmly but respectfully to the Bench,” but, on the other hand, “to the complainant he showed considerable animosity, and more than once had to be reproved by the Chairman.” The proceedings were short. “At the close there was a demonstration, which was immediately checked by the police.”
Glyde, in fact, was revealed as a narrow-faced young man, slim and olive-complexioned, having light, intent eyes, and very long eyelashes. Nervous he undoubtedly was; he twitched, he blinked, he swallowed. He looked effeminate to one judge. Another said of him to his neighbour, “As hardy as a hawk.” A newspaper called him “puny,” a rival “as tough as whip-cord.” It depended upon your reading of him—whether by externals or not. He had a quiet, fierce way with him, a glare, the look of a bird of prey. He was very self-possessed. All the papers observed it.
Ingram, playing his privilege to the last ounce, told his tale to his brother-magistrates, shortly, but with considerable effect. He had had occasion to dismiss a servant, and the prisoner had taken upon himself to resent it. Yes—in answer to a question—a female servant. Prisoner had attacked him in his own carriage-drive, had pulled him out of the saddle before he knew what he was about, and had beaten him while on the ground. He had no witnesses. There had been none. His voice, as he chopped out his phrases, was dry, his tone impartial. He took no sides, stated the facts. He spoke to the Chairman—even when he replied to the question which made him, for a moment, take breath; and he never once looked at the accused.
The Bench consulted together. Old Mr. Bazalguet, the Chairman, leaned far back in his chair and gazed at the ceiling, while two younger justices whispered to each other across his portly person, peering sideways at Ingram, who showed them his smooth head and folded arms. Colonel Vero, the fourth of the tribunal, was drawing angels on his blotting paper. Then they settled themselves, one of them with a shrug, and Sergeant Weeks told of the arrest. Accused had declined to make a statement, but had spoken certain words to his landlady, one Mrs. Broughton, to the effect that what was to come was “nothing” to what had been done. He had left in her charge papers, which the Sergeant had afterwards examined, and now had in his care. This had led to a brief interlude.
Mr. Bazalguet had caught the words. “Papers? What papers?” he asked. “Newspapers?”
“No, sir,” said Sergeant Weeks. “They were writings. Poetry and the like—and foreign tongues.” The bench sat up, and now Glyde had the hawk-look in his light eyes. Ingram stifled a yawn, and impressed the Bench.
Mr. Bazalguet, inclining his head to either side, enquired only with his eyebrows. Did we want these papers? Should we, perhaps, for form's sake examine them? Mr. Max Fortnaby was of opinion that we should. As they were handed up, the prisoner, who had been wetting his lips, said plainly, “There's nothing in them about this business,” and was reproved by Sergeant Weeks.