“Have you any reason to think he was there for any nefarious purpose?” asked the inspector.
“No; he was quite tipsy,” said Lucy. “He did not know what he was doing. I thought it was only a mistake.”
“Are you sure he was quite tipsy?” urged the inspector.
“Your man and my friend said so, and I could see he could scarcely walk,” Lucy answered. “It was at my request only that your man did not take him in charge. I thought he was in trouble through being deserted by this girl.”
“There’s often more than meets the eye at the bottom of these here love affairs and troubles,” said the unromantic inspector; “it might have done that youth and other folks too some good to have had it all out in court. But there’s no saying. Even there such things can’t be always looked into as deep as they should be.”
He wrote in his book. His next question was—
“Did you tell Mrs. Marvel why you had been dissatisfied with this girl?”
“She never asked me,” answered Lucy. “She sought no character from me.”
The inspector half smiled and gave his head a knowing little wag. He closed his book. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s all we need ask now. If any other point arises on which we think you may throw light, you’ll excuse our coming to you. We’re sorry to have had to disturb you, especially to-day.”
“You are only doing your duty,” said Lucy. “Good morning.” As she turned back into her little hall—Clementina’s rueful countenance, gleaming pale in the background—Lucy thought that this was for her a very mild disturbance indeed, as compared with the wreckage of last Christmas Day. It might indeed be otherwise with the Marvels? Yet Lucy could not avoid the reflection that they had, in a manner, brought this trouble on themselves.