“The devil take your slippery answers! D’ye think they’re as good as hanged?”
The magistrate was silent.
“And when will this new trial be?”
“Any day,” said Emmason, battling with his wounded dignity; and Moon turned to Eastwood.
“Who can we send?” he asked abruptly.
“Best send John Raikes. Fit him up wi’ pigeons and let him get off to-day. I’ll see the clogger.”
“And for the other tomfoolery, pretending to search premises: Cope has a warrant?”
“Hm! Ay, he has a warrant,” Eastwood said, with a shrug.
“So ye’re wakening up, are ye?” Moon grunted; and the tipsy tassels of the magistrate’s handkerchief shook as he nodded, as if he himself had been addressed.
“As for seeing Parker again,” he said, in a subdued voice, “I might as well sit where I am. I am bound to say it looks as if I was discredited, and I have thought of handing in my commission. Parker knows more than I. Even this”—he tapped the document—“even this I only received in common with every other magistrate in the Riding.”