Martin’s evidence was concise. He happened to be in the “Black Lion” yard with other children at a quarter past ten on Monday night. He heard a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s loud cry of pain, and both sounds seemed to come from the extreme end of the garden.

Kitty Thwaites ran toward the hotel shrieking, “Oh, Betsy, Betsy, you’ve killed him!” She screamed “Murder” and called for someone to come, “for God’s sake!” She fell exactly opposite the place where he was standing. Then he saw Betsy Thwaites – he identified her now as Mrs. Pickering – running after her sister and brandishing a knife. She appeared to be very excited, and cried out, “I’ll swing for him. May the Lord deal wi’ him as he dealt wi’ me!” She called her sister a “strumpet,” and said it would “serve her right to stick her with the same knife.” He was quite sure those were the exact words. He was not alarmed in any way, only surprised by the sudden uproar, and he saw the two women and the knife as plainly as if it were broad daylight.

Mr. Dane concluded the examination-in-chief, which he punctuated with expressive glances at the jury, by touching on a point which he expected his acute rival to raise.

“What were you doing in the ‘Black Lion’ yard at that hour, Bolland?”

“I was having a dispute with Master Frank Beckett-Smythe.”

“What sort of a dispute?”

“Well, we were fighting.”

A grin ran through the court.

“He is an intelligent boy and older than you. Can you suggest any reason why he should have failed to see and hear all that you saw and heard?”

Martin paused. He disliked to pose as a vainglorious pugilist, but there was no help for it.

“I got the better of him,” he said quietly. “One, at least, of his eyes were closed, and I had just given him an uppercut on the nose.”

“But his brother was there, too?”

“Master Ernest was looking after him.”

“How about the other children?”

“They ran away.”

“All of them?”

“Well, nearly all. I can only speak for myself, sir. No doubt the others will tell you what they saw.”

Obviously, Mr. Dane was unprepared for the cool self-possession displayed by this farmer’s son. He nodded acquiescence with Martin’s views and sat down.

Mr. Stockwell, watching the boy narrowly, had caught the momentary gleam of surprise when his look encountered that of the pretty dark-eyed child whose fashionable attire distinguished her from the village urchins among whom she was sitting.

“By the way,” he began, “why do you call yourself Bolland?”

“That is my name, sir.”

“Are you John Bolland’s son?”

“No, sir.”

“Then whose son are you?”

“I do not know. My father and mother adopted me thirteen years ago.”

The lawyer gathered by the expression on the stolid faces of the jury that this line of inquiry would be fruitless.

“What was the cause of the fight between you and young Beckett-Smythe?”

This was the signal for an interruption from the jury. Mr. Webster, the foreman, did not wish any slight to be placed on Mrs. Saumarez. The upshot might be that he would lose a good customer. The Squire dealt at the Stores. Let him protect his own children. But Mrs. Saumarez needed a champion.

“May I ask, sir,” he said to the Coroner, “what a bit of a row atween youngsters hez te do wi’ t’ case?”

“Nothing that I can see,” was the answer.

“It has a highly important bearing,” put in Mr. Stockwell. “If my information is correct, this witness is the only one whose evidence connects Mrs. Pickering even remotely with the injuries received by her husband. I assume, of course, that Marshall’s testimony is not worth a straw. I shall endeavor to elicit facts that may tend to prove the boy’s statements unreliable.”

“I cannot interfere with your discretion, Mr. Stockwell,” was the ruling.

“Now, answer my question,” cried the lawyer.

Martin’s brown eyes flashed back indignantly.

“We fought because I wished to take a young lady home, and he tried to prevent me.”

“A young lady! What young lady?”

“I refuse to mention her name. You asked why we fought, and I’ve told you.”

“Why this squeamishness, my young squire of dames? Was it not Angèle Saumarez?”

Martin turned to the Coroner.

“Must I reply, sir?”

“Yes… I fail still to see the drift of the cross-examination, Mr. Stockwell.”

“It will become apparent quickly. Yes, or no, Bolland?”

“Yes; it was.”

“Was she committed to your care by her mother?”

“No. She came out to see the fair. I promised to look after her.”

“Were you better fitted to protect this child than the two sons of Mr. Beckett-Smythe?”

“I thought so.”

“From what evil influences, then, was it necessary to rescue her?”

“That’s not a fair way to put it. It was too late for her to be out.”

“When did you discover this undeniable fact?”

“Just then.”

“Not when you were taking her through the fair in lordly style?”

“No. There was no harm in the shows, and I realized the time only when the clock struck ten.”

Every adult listener nodded approval. The adroit lawyer saw that he was merely strengthening the jury’s good opinion of the boy. He must strike hard and unmercifully if he would shake their belief in Martin’s good faith.

“There were several other children there – a boy named Bates, another named Beadlam, Mrs. Atkinson’s three girls, and others?”

“Bates was with me. The others were in the yard.”

“Ah, yes; they had left you a few minutes earlier. Now, is it not a fact that these children, and you with them, had gone to this hiding-place to escape being caught by your seniors?”

“No; it is a lie.”

“Is that your honest belief? Do you swear it?”

“I shirked nothing. Neither did the others. Hundreds of people saw us. As for Miss Saumarez, I think she went there for a lark more than anything else.”

“A questionable sort of lark. It is amazing to hear of respectable children being out at such an hour. Did your parents – did the parents of any of the others realize what was going on?”

“I think not. The whole thing was an accident.”

“But, surely, there must be some adequate explanation of this fight between you and Beckett-Smythe. It was no mere scuffle, but a severe set-to. He bears even yet the marks of the encounter.”

Master Frank was supremely uncomfortable when the united gaze of the court was thus directed to him. His right eye was discolored, as all might see, but his nose was normal.

“I have told you the exact truth. I wished her to go home – ”

“Did she wish it?”

“She meant to tease me, and said she would remain. Frank Beckett-Smythe and I agreed to fight, and settle whether she should go or stay.”

“So you ask us to believe that not only did you engage in a bout of fisticuffs in order to convoy to her home a girl already hours too late abroad, but that you alone, of all these children, can give us a correct version of occurrences on the other side of the hedge?”

“I don’t remember asking you that, sir,” said Martin seriously, and the court laughed.

Mr. Stockwell betrayed a little heat.

“You know well what I mean,” he said. “You are a clever boy. Are you not depending on your imagination for some of your facts?”

“I wish I were, sir,” was the sorrowful answer.

Quite unconsciously, Martin looked at Betsy. Some magnetic influence caused her to raise her eyes for the first time, and each gazed into the soul of the other.

Mr. Stockwell covered his retreat by an assumption of indifference.

“Fortunately, there is a host of witnesses to be heard in regard to these particular events,” he exclaimed, and Martin’s inquisition ceased.

The superintendent whispered something to Mr. Dane, who rose.

“A great deal has been made out of this quarrel about a little girl,” he said to the boy. “Is it not the fact that you have endeavored consistently to keep her name out of the affair altogether?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Mrs. Saumarez is only a visitor here, and her daughter could not know anything of village ways. I was mostly to blame for allowing her to be there at all, so I tried to take it onto my shoulders.”

It was interesting to note how Angèle received this statement. Her black eyes became tearful. Her hero was rehabilitated. She worshiped him again passionately. Someone else had peached. She brushed away the tears and darted a quick look at the Squire’s eldest son.

He was the next witness. He saw George Pickering and Kitty go down the garden, the man’s arm being around Kitty’s neck. Then he fought with Martin. Afterwards he heard some screaming, but could not tell a word that was said – he was too dazed.

“Is it not possible the hubbub was too confused that you should gain any intelligible idea of it?” asked Mr. Stockwell.

“Yes, that might be so.”

“You are a bigger boy than young Bolland. Surely he could not pummel the wits out of you?”

“I don’t think he will next time. He caught me a stinger by chance.”

A roar of laughter greeted this candid confession of future intentions. Even Mr. Beckett-Smythe and the vicar joined in.

“Why did you wish to keep this girl, Angèle Saumarez, away from her residence?”

“She’s a jolly sort of girl, and I think we were all a bit off our heads,” said Frank ruefully.

“But you had some motive, some design. Remember, you fought to retain her.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” said the boy, glancing at his father. His most active memory was of a certain painful interview on Wednesday night.

“You were not groggy on your legs,” was Mr. Stockwell’s first remark to Ernest. “What did you hear or see beyond the garden hedge?”

“There was a lot of yelling, and two women ran toward the hotel. The woman with a knife was threatening to stick it into somebody, but I couldn’t tell who.”

“Ah. She was running after the other woman. Don’t you think she might have been threatening her only?”

“It certainly looked like it.”

“Can’t you help us by being more definite?”

“No. Frank was asking for a pump. I was thinking of that more than of the beastly row in the garden.”

He was dismissed.

“Angèle Saumarez.”

The strangers present surveyed the girl with expectant interest. She looked a delightfully innocent child. She was attired in the dark dress she wore on the Monday evening. Her hat, gloves, and shoes were in perfect taste. No personality could be more oddly at variance with a village brawl than this delicate, gossamer, fairy-like little mortal.

She gave her evidence without constraint or shyness. Her pretty continental accent enhanced the charm of her manners. In no sense forward, she won instant approbation, and the general view was that she had drifted into an unpleasant predicament by sheer force of circumstances. The mere love of fun brought her out to see the fair, and her presence in the stackyard was accounted for by a girlish delight in setting boys at loggerheads.

But she helped the police contention by declaring that she heard Betsy say:

“I’ll swing for him.”

“I remember,” she said sweetly, “wondering what she meant. To swing for anybody! That is odd.”

“Might it not have been ‘for her’ and not ‘for him’?” suggested Mr. Stockwell.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Angèle. “I wouldn’t be sure about that. They talk queerly, these people. I am certain about the ‘swing’.”

Really, there never was a more simple little maid.

“You must never again go out at night to such places,” remarked the Coroner paternally.

She cast down her eyes.

“Mamma was very angry,” she simpered. “I have been kept at home for days and days on account of it.”

She glanced at Martin. That explanation was intended for him. As a matter of fact, Mr. Beckett-Smythe called at The Elms on Thursday morning and told Mrs. Saumarez that her child needed more control. He had thrashed Frank soundly the previous evening for riding off to a rendezvous fixed with Angèle for nine o’clock. He whispered this information to Mr. Herbert, and the vicar’s eyes opened wide.

The other non-professional witnesses, children and adults, did not advance the inquiry materially. Many heard Kitty shrieking that her sister had murdered George Pickering, but Kitty herself had admitted saying so under a misapprehension.

P. C. Benson raised an important point. The pitchfork was first mentioned about eleven o’clock, when Mr. Pickering was able to talk coherently, after being laid on a bed and drinking some brandy. Neither of the two women had spoken of it. And there were footprints that did not bear out the movements described in the dead man’s deposition.

“But Mr. Pickering’s first lucid thought referred to this implement?” said Mr. Stockwell.

“Neäbody was holdin’ him, sir.”

The policeman imagined the lawyer had said “loosened.”

“I mean that the first account he ever gave of this accident referred to the pitchfork, and his subsequent statements were to the same effect.”

“Oah, yes. There’s no denyin’ that.”

“And you found the fork lying exactly where he described its position?”

“Why, yes; but he was a desp’rate lang time i’ studdyin’ t’ matter oot afore he’s speak.”

“Do you suggest that someone placed the fork there by his instructions?”

“Noa, sir. Most like he’d seen it there hissen.”

“Then why do you refuse to accept his statement that an accident took place?”

“Because I f’und his footprints where he ran across t’ garden te t’ spot where he was picked up.”

“Footprints! After a month of fine weather!”

“It was soft mold, sir, an’ they were plain enough.”

“Were not a dozen men running about this garden at twenty minutes past ten?”

“Ay – quite that.”

“And you tell us coolly that you could distinguish those of one man?”

“There was on’y one man’s track i’ that pleäce, sir.”

Benson was not to be flurried. Mr. Jonas and a police sergeant corroborated his opinion.

Dr. MacGregor followed. He described Pickering’s wound, the nature of his illness, and the cause of death. The stab itself was not of a fatal character. Had it diverged slightly it must have reached the lung. As it was, the poison, not the knife, had done the mischief.

The county analyst was scientifically dogmatic. His analyses had been conducted with the utmost care. The knife was contaminated, the pitchfork was only rusty. The latter was a dangerous implement, but in no way responsible for the state of Pickering’s blood corpuscles.

Mr. Dane, of course, made the most of these witnesses, but Mr. Stockwell wisely forbore from pressing them, and thus hammering the main items again into the heads of the jury.

The Coroner glanced at his watch. It was six o’clock. Neither of the solicitors was permitted to address the court, and he made up his mind to conclude the inquiry forthwith.

“There is one matter which might be cleared up,” he said. “Where is Marshall, the groom?”

It was discovered that the man had left the court half an hour ago. He had not returned. P.C. Benson was sent to find him. The two came back in five minutes. Their arrival was heralded by loud shouts and laughter outside. When they entered the schoolroom Marshall presented a ludicrous spectacle. He was dripping wet, and not from rain, for his clothes were covered with slime and mud.

It transpired that he had gone to a public house for a pint of beer. Several men and youths who could not gain admittance to the court took advantage of the absence of the police and amused themselves by ducking him in a convenient horse pond.

The Coroner, having expressed his official annoyance at the incident, asked the shivering man if he followed Betsy into the garden.

No; he saw her go out through the back door.

“Then the threats you heard were uttered while she was in the passage of the hotel or in the kitchen?”

Yes; that was so.

“It is noteworthy,” said the Coroner, “that none of the children heard this young woman going toward the couple. She must have run swiftly and silently down the path, and the witnesses were so absorbed in the fight that she passed them unheard and unseen.”

Mr. Stockwell frowned. If this gave any indication of the Coroner’s summing-up, it was not favorable to his client.

Dr. Magnus showed at once that he meant to cast aside all sentimental considerations and adhere solely to the judicial elements. He treated George Pickering’s deposition with all respect, but pointed out that the dying man might be actuated by the desire to make atonement to the woman he had wronged. The human mind was capable of strange vagaries. A man who would slight, or, at any rate, be indifferent, to one of the opposite sex, when far removed from personal contact, was often swayed by latent ties of affection when brought face to face with the woman herself.

In a word, the Coroner threw all his weight on the side of the police and against Betsy. He regarded Fred Marshall and young Bolland as truthful witnesses, though inspired by different motives, and deemed the medical evidence conclusive.

Betsy sat sphinx-like through this ordeal. Her unhappy parents, and even more unhappy sister, were profoundly distressed, and Stockwell watched the jury keenly as each damning point against his client was emphasized.

“The law is quite clear in affairs of this kind,” concluded Dr. Magnus gravely. “Either this unfortunate man was murdered, in which event your verdict can only take one form, or he met with an accident. Most fortunately, the last word does not rest with this court, or it would be impossible to close the inquiry to-day. The deceased himself raised a pertinent question: Why did his wife escape blood-poisoning, although he became infected? But the solicitors present apparently concur with me that this is a matter which must be determined elsewhere – ”

“No, no,” broke in Mr. Stockwell. “I admit nothing of the sort.”

The Coroner bowed.

“You have the benefit of my opinion, gentlemen,” he said to the jury. “You must retire now and consider your verdict.”

The jury filed out into a classroom, an unusual proceeding, but highly expedient in an inquiry of such importance. Tongues were loosened instantly, and a hum of talk arose, while the witnesses signed their recorded statements. Kitty endeavored to arouse her sister from the condition of stupor in which she remained, and the girl’s mother placed an arm around her shoulders. But Betsy paid little heed. Her mind dwelt on one object only – a sheet-covered form, lying cold and inanimate in a room of the neighboring hotel.

Angèle sidled toward Martin when a movement in court permitted. Françoise would have restrained her, but the child slid along a bench so quickly that the nurse’s protest came too late.

“Martin,” she whispered, “you behaved beautifully. I was so angry with you at first. But it was not you. I know now. Evelyn Atkinson told.”

“I wish it had never happened,” said the boy bitterly. He hated the notion that his evidence was the strongest link in the chain encircling the hapless Betsy.

“Oh, I don’t find it bad, this court. One is all pins and needles at first. But the men are nice.”

“I am not thinking of ourselves,” he growled.

“Tiens! Of whom, then?”

“Angèle, you’re awfully selfish. What have we to endure, compared with poor Mrs. Pickering?”

“Oh, pouf! That is her affair. Mamma beat me on Thursday. Beat me, look you! But I made her stop, oh, so quickly. Miss Walker pretends that mamma was ill. I know better, and so do you. I said if she hit me again – ”

He caught her wrist.

“Shut up!” he said in a firm whisper.

“Don’t. You are hurting me. Why are you so horrid? Do you want me to be beaten?”

“No; but how can you dare threaten your mother?”

“I would dare anything rather than be kept in the house – away from you.”

Frank Beckett-Smythe, sitting near his father, was wondering dully why he had been such a fool as to incur severe penalties for the sake of this “silly kid,” who was now ogling his rival and whispering coyly in that rival’s ear. Martin was welcome to her, for all he cared. No girl was worth the uneasiness of the chair he occupied, for his father’s hunting-crop had fallen with such emphasis that he felt the bruises yet.

The jury returned. They had been absent half an hour. Mr. Webster was flustered – that was perceptible instantly. He, as foreman, had to deliver the finding.

“Have you agreed as to your verdict?” said the Coroner.

“We have.”

“And it is?”

“Not guilty!”

“What are you talking about? This is not a criminal court. You are asked to determine how George Pickering met his death.”

“I beg pardon,” stammered Mr. Webster. He turned anxiously to his colleagues. Some of them prompted him.

“I mean,” he went on, “that our verdict is ‘Accidental death.’ That’s it, sir. ‘Accidental death,’ I should hev said. Mr. Pickerin’s own words – ”

The Coroner frowned.

“It is an amazing verdict,” he said. “I feel it my bounden duty – ”

Mr. Stockwell, pale but determined, sprang to his feet.

“Do hear me for one moment!” he cried.

The Coroner did not answer, so the solicitor took advantage of the tacit permission.

“I well recognize that the police cannot let the matter rest here,” he pleaded. “On your warrant they will arrest my client. Such a proceeding is unnecessary. In her present state of health it might be fatal. Surely it will suffice if you record your dissent and the inquiry is left to other authorities. I am sure that you, that Mr. Dane, will forgive the informality of my request. It arises solely from motives of humanity.”

The Coroner shook his head.

“I am sorry, Mr. Stockwell, but I must discharge my duty conscientiously. The verdict is against the weight of evidence, and the ultimate decision rests with me, not with the jury. They have chosen deliberately to ignore my directions, and I have no option but to set aside their finding. I am compelled to issue a warrant charging your client with ‘wilful murder.’ Protests only render the task more painful, and I may point out that, under any circumstances, the date of arrest cannot be long deferred.”

A howl of vehement indignation came from the packed court. Nearly everyone present sympathized with Betsy. They accepted George Pickering’s dying declaration as final; they regarded the Coroner’s attitude as outrageous.

For an instant the situation was threatening. It looked as though the people would wrest the girl from the hands of the police by main force. Old Mrs. Thwaites fainted, Kitty screamed dreadful words at the Coroner, and the girl’s father sprawled across the table with his face in his hands and crying pitifully.

Mr. Beckett-Smythe rose, but none would listen. There was a scene of tense excitement. Already men were crowding to the center of the room, while an irresistible rush from outside drove a policeman headlong from the door.

Mr. Herbert strove to make himself heard, but an overwrought member of the jury bellowed:

“Mak’ him record oor vardict, parson. What right hez he te go ageän t’ opinion o’ twelve honest men?”

Solicitors and reporters gathered their papers hastily, fearing an instant onslaught on the Coroner, and someone chanced to step on Angèle’s foot as she clung in fright to Martin. The child squealed loudly; her toes had been squeezed under a heavy boot.

Françoise, whose broad Norman face depicted every sort of bewilderment at the tumult which had sprung up for some cause she in no way understood, rose at the child’s cry of anguish, and incontinently flung two pressmen out of her path. She reached Angèle and faced the crowd with splendid courage.

The voluble harangue she poured forth in French, her uncommon costume, and fierce gesticulations gained her a hearing which would have been denied any other person in the room, save, perhaps, Betsy. And Betsy was striving to bring her mother back to consciousness, without, however, departing in the least particular from her own attitude of stoic despair.

The Coroner availed himself of the momentary lull. Françoise paused for sheer lack of breath, and Dr. Magnus made his voice heard far out into the village street.

“Why all this excitement?” he shouted. “The jury’s verdict will be recorded, but you cannot force me to agree with it. The police need not arrest Mrs. Pickering on my warrant at once. I hope they will not do so. Surely, as men of sense, you will not endeavor to defy the law? You are injuring this poor woman’s cause by an unseemly turmoil. Make way, there, at the door, and allow Mrs. Pickering to escort her mother to the hotel. You are frightening women and children by your bluster.”

Mr. Stockwell joined the superintendent in appealing to the crowd to disperse, and the crisis passed. In a few minutes the members of the Thwaites family were safe within the portals of the inn, and the schoolroom was empty of all save a few officials and busy reporters.

Françoise held fast to Angèle, but the girl appealed to Martin to accompany her a little way. He yielded, though he turned back before reaching the vicarage.

“Mother and I are coming to tea to-morrow,” she cried as they parted.

“All right,” he replied. “Mind you don’t vex her again.”

“Not I. She will want to hear all about the inquest. It was as good as a play. Wasn’t Françoise funny? Oh, I do wish you had understood her. She called the men ‘sacrés cochons d’Anglais!’ It is so naughty in English.”

On the green, and dotted about the roadway, excited groups discussed the lively episode in the schoolroom. They were rancorous against the Coroner, and not a few boohed as he entered his carriage with Mr. Dane.

“Ay, they’d hang t’ poor lass, t’ pair of ’em, if they could,” shouted a buxom woman.

“Sheäm on ye!” screamed another. “I’ll lay owt ye won’t sleep soond i’ yer beds te-night.”

But these vaporings broke no bones, and the Coroner drove away, glad enough that so far as he was concerned a distasteful experience had ended.

The persistent rain soon cleared loiterers from the center of the village. John Bolland came to the farm while Martin was eating a belated meal.

“A nice deed there was at t’ inquest, I hear,” he said. “I don’t know what’s come te Elmsdale. It’s fair smitten wi’ a moral pestilence. One reads o’ sike doin’s i’ foreign lands, but I nivver thowt te see ’em i’ this law-abidin’ counthry.”

Then Martha flared up.

“Wheä’s i’ t’ fault?” she cried. “Can ye bleäm t’ folk for lossin’ their tempers when a daft Crowner cooms here an’ puts hissen up ageän t’ jury? If he had a bit o’ my tongue, I’d teng (sting) him!”

So Elmsdale declared itself unhesitatingly on Betsy’s side. A dead man’s word carried more weight than all the law in the land.