And the inspector felt concerned and sorry. "Hadn’t seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?"
"Never had, seen her. I’m from the country." Something impelled Mrs. Bunting to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, "At least, I was."
"Will he be there?"
She looked at him dumbly; not in the least knowing to whom he was alluding.
"I mean the husband," went on the inspector hastily. "I felt sorry for the last poor chap—I mean the husband of the last one—he seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she’d been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink."
"It always is so," breathed out Mrs. Bunting.
"Aye." He waited a moment. "D’you know anyone about the court?" he asked.
She shook her head.
"Well, don’t you worry. I’ll take you in along o’ me. You’d never get in by yourself."
They got out; and oh, the comfort of being in some one’s charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet even now there was to Mrs. Bunting something dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole business.
"If he knew—if he only knew what I know!" she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly by the big, burly form of the police inspector.
"’Tisn’t far—not three minutes," he said suddenly. "Am I walking too quick for you, ma’am?"
"No, not at all. I’m a quick walker."
And then suddenly they turned a corner and came
