“Could the beetle-powder have poisoned the children?” I asked.
“I don’t know, Johnny. It is an odd tale altogether. We will go down and inquire into it.”
Which of course implied that he expected me to go with him. Nothing loath was I; more eager than he.
Finishing what was left of the tea and bread-and-butter, we went on to Piefinch Cut. Ann Dovey was alone, except for her husband and mother. She flung herself on the sofa when she saw us—the blacksmith’s house was comfortably off for furniture—and began to scream.
“Now, just you stop that, Ann Dovey,” said Duffham, who was always short with hysterics. “I want to come to the bottom of this business; you can’t tell it me while you scream. What in the world possessed you to go about with your pocket full of poison?”
She had her share of sense, and knew Duffham was not one to be trifled with; so she told the tale as well as she could for sobbing.
“Have you mentioned this out of doors?” was the first question Duffham asked when it was over.
“No,” interposed Dovey. “I telled ’er afore I come to you not to be soft enough for that. Not a soul have heard it, sir, but me and her”—pointing to the old mother—“and you and Master Johnny. We don’t want all the parish swarming about us like so many hornets.”
“Good,” said Duffham. “But it is rather a serious thing, I fear. Uncertain, at any rate.”
“Be it, sir?” returned Ann, raising her heavy eyes questioningly. “Do you think so?”