“It ain’t possible, sir, there ain’t a moral possibility that any o’ that there dratted powder could have come anigh the babies,” wound up Dovey. “I should be thankful, sir, if you’d come down and quieten her a bit; her be in a fine way.”
What with surprise, and what with the man’s rapid speech, Duffham had not taken in one-half of the tale. He had simply sat behind the teapot and stared.
“My good fellow, I don’t understand,” he said. “A pocketful of poison! What on earth made her take poison to George Reed’s?”
So Dovey went over the heads of the story again.
“’Twas in her pocket, sir, our Ann’s, it’s true; but the chances are that at that time the paper hadn’t burst. None of it couldn’t ha’ got to them there two young ones.”
To see the blacksmith’s earnestness was good. His face was as eager, his tone as imploring, as though he were pleading for his life.
“And it ’ud be a work of charity, sir, if you’d just step down and see her. I’d pay handsome for the visit, sir; anything you please to charge. She’s like one going right out of her mind.”
“I’ll come,” said Duffham, who had his curiosity upon the point.
And the blacksmith set off on the run home again.
“Well, this is a curious thing!” exclaimed Duffham, when he had gone.