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from London I had to come the rest of the way on the stagecoach to Wisborough Green—”
    “Why, in heaven’s name?”
    “Oh, pockets to let! To tell you the truth, when I’d paid my fare I’d only a couple of benders left.”
    “That I can well believe, but could you not have gone to Mount Street?” “Yes, but I thought very likely John would be there, and you know what he is, Ned! He would have been prosing on and on, and I don’t mind if you take me to task, but I won’t have John preaching sermons to me, because he’s not my guardian, after all, and it only makes me mad!”
    “You are quite out of luck: John is at home.”
    “Yes, I know he is: Hitchin told me so. I wish he were not, for he is bound to pull a long face over what has happened, and say I had no business to have done it, just as though he would not have done it himself, which I know he must have, for with all his prosy ways he’s a right one, isn’t he, Ned?”
    “Yes; and what is it that he must have done?”
    “I was coming to that. I thought, when I reached Wisborough Green, that I would go into the Bull and borrow old Hitchin’s gig to take me up to the Hall. And Jem said he was in the coffee room, and I went in, and he was, and that damned fellow, Eustace, was there too. Everything would have been all right and tight had it not been for that, Ned!” “Was anyone else in the coffee room?”
    “No, only Hitchin and me. Well, I was quite civil to Eustace, and he was too—to me, I mean. And Hitchin said I might borrow the gig, and while the nag was being harnessed would I have some supper? I was devilish hungry, I can tell you, and Hitchin had a rare ham there, so I said I would. And that’s when it all began. Because while I was eating the ham, there Eustace sat, grumbling himself into a fit of the sullens. You know how he does! I wasn’t paying much heed to him, and I would not have, only that he started on you, Ned.” He broke off, and his boyish countenance hardened. Miss Rochdale, curiously watching him, thought that he ground his teeth. “He said such things there was no bearing it!” “No, I see. Was he foxed, Nicky?”
    Nicky gave this his consideration. “Well, he wasn’t as drunk as a wheelbarrow,” he explained. “Just a trifle bosky, you know. He always is. I warned him I’d not sit by while he abused you, but it was all to no purpose. He said—well, that’s no matter! I knocked him down—and so would John have done!”
    “Yes, never mind that! Go on!”
    “He never could bear to have his cork drawn, and I did—landed him a regular facer! He was ready to murder me! Picked himself up and came at me, and before you could turn round we were at it, milling away! I floored him again, and the table went over in the flurry, and all the plates and things were on the ground, and the big knife Hitchin used to carve the ham. By God, Ned, Eustace is a shocking loose screw! Do you know, he snatched up that knife and tried to stab me with it? We had the devil of a struggle, and there was Hitchin, trying to help me wrench the knife out of his hold, and only getting in the way, and—Oh, God, Ned, I don’t know how it happened, and I swear I never meant to do it! I had hold of the knife, and suddenly he let go, and whether he tripped, or it was Hitchin trying to grasp him—though I don’t mean to say it was anyone’s fault but mine!—but however it was he fell forward, and before I knew—before I had time to move—!” He broke off, covering his face with his hands.
    “In fact, it was an accident?”
    “Yes, it was an accident. Of course it was an accident! Why, is it likely I would—” “No, certainly not. But there is no need to be so agitated, if that is what happened. The case is not desperate.”
    “Oh, Ned, do you think so indeed? Shall I have to stand my trial? Will they say I murdered Eustace? For I suppose that is what I have done, though I did not mean to.” “Nothing of the sort! Don’t be silly,