“But—in right of law and order, I must know more about this!” cried Constable Jacky, lifting up his staff again. Somehow, however, the magic had gone from his words. Every one now knew that his thunder had a hollow sound.
“Ah, you are the gendarme—the official—the officer!” said the tall girl, with a more pronounced foreign accent than before, making him a little bow; “please go and tell your superiors that we are here because the place belongs to us—at least to my brother, and that I am staying to take care of him.”
“But how did you come?” persisted the man in authority.
The tall girl looked over his head. Her glance, clear, cool, penetrating, scanned face after face, and then she said, as it were, regretfully, “There are no gentlefolk among you?”
There was the slightest shade of inquiry about words which might have seemed rude as a mere affirmation. Then she appeared to answer for herself, still with the same tinge of sadness faintly colouring her pride. “For this reason I cannot tell you how we came to be here.”
Mr. Josiah Kettle felt called upon to assert himself.
“I have reason to believe,” he said pompously, “that I am as good as any on the estate in the way of being a gentleman—me and my son Joseph. I am a Justice of the Peace, under warrant of the Crown, and so one day will my son Joseph—Jo, you rascal, come off that paling!”
But just then Jo Kettle had other fish to fry. From the bad eminence of the garden palisade he was devouring the new-comer with his eyes. As for me, I had shaken the hand of the lately adored Greensleeves from my arm.
The girl’s glance stayed for an instant and no more upon the round and rosy countenance of Mr. Josiah Kettle, Justice of the Peace. She smiled upon him indulgently, but shook her head.
“I am sorry,” she said, with gentle condescension, “that I cannot tell anything more to you. You are one of the people who broke our windows!”