And so, after all, a verdict of “death from natural causes” was returned, and Johnson, feeling extremely dissatisfied, left the Court accompanied by Blenkiron and Captain Preston.
It was the second of these two incidents, however, which had interested Preston far more than the first, had, indeed, engrossed almost the whole of his attention since the night of the ball—the arrest of Yootha Hagerston. Though finally acquitted, she had undergone intense mental suffering during the time she had been kept under observation. And naturally people had talked. Many, in fact, had not yet finished talking. Among the latter was Jessica Mervyn-Robertson.
Perhaps the truth of the old saying that “if you throw mud enough, some of it is sure to stick,” had never been better illustrated than in connection with Yootha’s arrest on a charge of theft. Women in particular discussed the affair, and during such discussions eyebrows were raised significantly, and there were plenty of little smiles which implied more than any spoken words could have done.
“Had she been a poor woman, instead of what we call a lady,” the hackneyed observation was trotted out again, “she would be in prison now, my dear,” a faded creature who had always toadied to rich people observed to Jessica during a few moments’ conversation they had in Bond Street one morning. “Mrs. Stringborg is a friend of yours, isn’t she?”
Jessica replied that she had known her for some years.
“And what does she think about it?”
Jessica raised her eyebrows. Then, after an instant’s pause, she said cryptically:
“She doesn’t think.”
The faded woman nodded.
“I understand,” she purred. “She knows.”