‘Take him into custody,’ gasped the blacksmith’s wife. ‘Take him to prison. Oh, the wretch! oh, the wife-beater! oh, I am beaten to a jelly—I am bruised black and blue!’
Lord Chester stepped before the unhappy blacksmith.
‘Stay!’ he said to the policewomen. ‘Not so fast. Tom, what do you say?’ he asked the blacksmith.
‘I never laid hand on her,’ said the unhappy man. ‘But all’s one for that. I suppose I’ll have to go to prison, my lord. Anyhow, there can’t be no prison worse than this life. I’m glad and happy to be rid of her.’
‘Stay again,’ said his lordship. The people gathered closer in wonder. The masterful young lord looked as if he meant to interfere. ‘Some of you,’ he said, ‘take this woman away, and look for any marks of violence. No,’ as the elder women pressed forward, ‘not you who have got young husbands of your own, and would like to get rid of them yourselves perhaps. Some of you girls take her.’
But she refused to go, while the old women murmured amongst each other.
‘Must obey orders, my lord,’ said one of the police. ‘Here’s a case for the magistrates. Woman says her husband struck, beat, and kicked her. Magistrates will hear the case, my lord.’
She pulled out her handcuffs.
Then Lord Chester saw that the moment had arrived.
‘Harry,’ he said, ‘stand by.’