“Mud cakes,” said Mr. Bodfish, with his most professional manner; “a small boot would pick up a lot this weather.”
“So it would,” said Mr. Negget, and with brazen effrontery not only met his wife’s eye without quailing, but actually glanced down at her boots.
Mr. Bodfish came back to his chair and ruminated. Then he looked up and spoke.
“It was missed this morning at ten minutes past twelve,” he said, slowly; “it was there last night. At eleven o’clock you came in and found Mrs. Driver sitting in that chair.”
“No, the one you’re in,” interrupted his niece.
“It don’t signify,” said her uncle. “Nobody else has been near the place, and Emma’s box has been searched.
“Thoroughly searched,” testified Mrs. Negget.
“Now the point is, what did Mrs. Driver come for this morning?” resumed the ex-constable. “Did she come—”
He broke off and eyed with dignified surprise a fine piece of wireless telegraphy between husband and wife. It appeared that Mr. Negget sent off a humorous message with his left eye, the right being for some reason closed, to which Mrs. Negget replied with a series of frowns and staccato shakes of the head, which her husband found easily translatable. Under the austere stare of Mr. Bodfish their faces at once regained their wonted calm, and the ex-constable in a somewhat offended manner resumed his inquiries.
“Mrs. Driver has been here a good bit lately,” he remarked, slowly.