Mrs. Saumarez explained what all the gesticulation was about.

"If she's wi' Martin, she'll be all right," said Bolland. "He'll bring her yam afore ye git yer things off, ma'am."

He was right. Angle had discovered that Elsie Herbert would be at the church bazaar that evening, and planned the ramble with Martin so that the vicar's daughter might meet them together on the high road.

It delighted her to see the only rival she feared flash a quick side glance as she bowed smilingly and pa.s.sed on, for Mr. Herbert did not wholly approve of Angle, so Elsie thought it best not to stop for a chat. Martin, too, was annoyed as he doffed his cap. He thought Elsie would surely ask how he was. Moreover, those hot kisses were burning yet on his lips; the memory made him profoundly uncomfortable.

That was all. When he left Angle at the gate she did not suggest a rendezvous at a later hour. Not only would it be useless, but she had seen Frank Beckett-Smythe earlier in the day, and he said there was a dinner party at the Hall.

Perhaps he might be able to slip away unnoticed about nine.

CHAPTER XIII

A DYING DEPOSITION

Before Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down to dinner that evening a very unpleasant duty had been thrust on him.

The superintendent of police drove over from Nottonby to show him the county a.n.a.lyst's report. Divested of technicalities, this doc.u.ment proved that George Pickering's dangerous condition arose from blood poisoning caused by a stab from a contaminated knife. It was admitted that a wound inflicted by a rusty pitchfork might have had equally serious results, but the a.n.a.lysis of matter obtained from both instruments proved conclusively that the knife alone was impregnated with the putrid germs found in the blood corpuscles, which also contained an undue proportion of alcohol.

Moreover, Dr. MacGregor's statement on the one vital point was unanswerable. Pickering was suffering from an incised wound which could not have been inflicted by the rounded p.r.o.ngs of a fork. The doctor was equally emphatic in his belief that the injured man would succ.u.mb speedily.

In the face of these doc.u.ments it was necessary that George Pickering's depositions should be taken by a magistrate. Most unwillingly, Mr.

Beckett-Smythe accompanied the superintendent to the "Black Lion Hotel"

for the purpose.

They entered the sick room about the time that Mrs. Saumarez was crossing the green on her way to the Methodist Chapel. A glance at Pickering's face showed that the doctor had not exaggerated the gravity of the affair. He was deathly pale, save for a number of vivid red spots on his skin. His eyes shone with fever. Were not his malady identified, the unskilled observer might conclude that he was suffering from a severe attack of German measles.

Betsy was there, and the prim nurse. The contrast between the two women was almost as startling as the change for the worse in Pickering's appearance. The nurse, strictly professional in deportment, paid heed to naught save the rules of treatment. The word "hospital," "certificate,"

"method," shrieked silently from her flowing coif and list slippers, from the clinical thermometer on the table, and the temperature chart on the mantelpiece.

Poor Betsy was sitting by the bedside, holding her lover's hand. She was smiling wistfully, striving to chatter in cheerful strain, yet all the time she wanted to wail her despair, to pet.i.tion on her knees that her crime might be avenged on herself, not on its victim.

When the magistrate stepped gingerly forward, Pickering turned querulously to see who the visitor was, for the nurse had nodded permission to enter when the two men looked through the half-open door.

"Oh, it's you, squire," he said in a low voice. "I thought it might be MacGregor."

"How are you feeling now, George?"

"Pretty sick. I suppose you've heard the verdict?"

"The doctor says you are in a bad state."

"Booked, squire, booked! And no return ticket. I don't care. I've made all arrangements--that is, I'll have a free mind this time to-morrow--and then, well, I'll face the music."

He caught sight of the police officer.

"h.e.l.lo, Jonas! You there? Come for my last dying depositions, eh? All right. Fire away! Betsy, my la.s.s, leave us for a bit. The nurse can stay. The more witnesses the merrier."

Betsy arose. There was no fear in her eyes now--only dumb agony. She walked steadily from the room. While Mr. Beckett-Smythe was thanking Providence under his breath that a most distressing task was thus being made easy for him, they all heard a dreadful sob from the exterior landing, followed by a heavy thud. The nurse hurried out. Betsy had fainted.

With a painful effort Pickering raised himself on one arm. His forced gayety gave place to loud-voiced violence.

"Confound you all!" he roared. "Why come here to frighten the poor girl's life out of her?"

He cursed both the magistrate and Superintendent Jonas by name; were he able to rise he would break their necks down the stairs. The policeman crept out on tip-toe; Mr. Beckett-Smythe sat down. Pickering stormed away until the nurse returned.

"Miss Thwaites is better," she said. "She was overcome by the long strain, but she is with her sister now, and quite recovered."

Betsy was crying her heart out in Kitty's arms: fortunately, the sounds of her grief were shut out from their ears. Jonas came back and closed the door. The doomed man sank to the pillow and growled sullenly:

"Now, get on with your business, and be quick over it. I'll not have Betsy worried again while I have breath left to protest."

"I am, indeed, very sorry to disturb you, George," said the magistrate quietly. "It is a thankless office for an old friend. Try and calm yourself. I do not ask your forbearance toward myself and Mr. Jonas, but there are tremendous issues at stake. For your own sake you must help us to face this ordeal."

"Oh, go ahead, squire. My bark is worse than my bite--not that I have much of either in me now. If I spoke roughly, forgive me. I couldn't bear to hear yon la.s.s suffering."

Thinking it best to avoid further delay, Mr. Beckett-Smythe nodded to the police officer, who drew forward a small table, which, with writing materials, he placed before the magistrate.

A foolscap sheet bore already some written words. The magistrate bent over it, and said, in a voice shaken with emotion:

"Listen, George. I have written here: 'I, George Pickering, being of sound mind, but believing myself to be in danger of death, solemnly take oath and depose as follows': Now, I want you to tell me, in your own words, what took place last Monday night. You are going to the awful presence of your Creator. You must tell the truth, fully and fearlessly, not striving to determine the course of justice by your own judgment, but leaving matters wholly in the hands of G.o.d. You are conscious of what you are doing, fully sensible that you will soon be called on to meet One who knoweth all things. I hope, I venture to pray, that you will give testimony in all sincerity and righteousness.... I am ready."

Pickering heard this solemn injunction with due gravity. His features were composed, his eyes fixed on the distant landscape through the open window. No disturbing noise reached him save the lowing of cattle and the far-off rattle of a reaping machine, for the police had ordered the removal of the shooting gallery and roundabout to the other end of the green.

He remained silent so long that the two men glanced at him anxiously, but were rea.s.sured by the belief that he was only collecting his thoughts. Indeed, it was not so. He was striving to bridge that dark chasm on whose perilous verge he tottered--striving to frame an excuse that would not be uttered by his mortal lips.

At last he spoke.

"On Monday night, about five minutes past ten, I met Kitty Thwaites, by appointment, at the wicket gate which opens into the garden from the bowling green of the 'Black Lion Hotel,' Elmsdale. We walked down the garden together. We were talking and laughing about the antics of a groom in this hotel, a fellow named Fred--I do not know his surname--who was jealous of me because I was in the habit of chaffing Kitty and placing my arm around her waist if I encountered her on the stairs. This man Fred, I believe, endeavored to pay attentions to Kitty, which she always refused to encourage. Kitty and I stopped at the foot of the garden beneath a pear tree which stands in the boundary fence of the paddock.

"I had my arm around her neck, but was only playing the fool, which Kitty knew as well as I. There was a bright moon, and, although almost invisible ourselves in the shadow of the hedge and tree, we could see clearly into both paddock and garden. My back was toward the hotel.

Suddenly, we heard someone running down the gravel path. I turned and saw that it was Betsy Thwaites, Kitty's sister, a girl whom I believed to be then in a situation at Hereford. I had promised to marry Betsy, and was naturally vexed at being caught in an apparently compromising att.i.tude with her sister. Betsy had a knife in her hand. I could see it glittering in the moonlight."

He paused. He was corpse-like in color. The red spots on his face were darker than before by contrast with the wan cheeks. He motioned to the nurse, who gave him a gla.s.s of barley water. He emptied it at a gulp.

Catching Mr. Beckett-Smythe's mournful glance, he smiled with ghastly pleasantry.

"It sounds like a coroner's inquest, doesn't it?" he said.

Then, while his eyes roved incessantly from the face of the policeman to that of the magistrate, he continued:

"I imagined that Betsy meant to do her sister some harm, so sprang forward to meet her. Then I saw that she was minded to attack me, for she screamed out: 'You have ruined my life. I'll take care you do not ruin Kitty's.'"

The words, of course, were spoken very slowly. They alternated with the steady scratching of the pen. Others in the room were pallid now. Even the rigid nurse yielded to the excitement of the moment. Her linen bands fluttered and her bosom rose and fell with the restraint she imposed on her breathing.