‘Can no one stop this gang?’
Bobbie Ferrar shook his head, his eyes looked very round.
Hubert rose.
‘I’m sorry that I let anyone bother himself in the matter. Come along, Jean!’ and with a slight bow he turned and went out. Jean followed him.
Hallorsen and Bobbie Ferrar were left confronted.
‘I don’t understand this country,’ said Hallorsen. ‘What ought to have been done?’
‘Nothing,’ answered Bobbie Ferrar. ‘When it comes before the magistrate, bring all the evidence you can.’
‘We surely will. Mr Ferrar, I am glad to have met you!’
Bobbie Ferrar grinned. His eyes looked even rounder.
Chapter Twenty-four
IN the due course of justice, Hubert was brought up at Bow Street on a warrant issued by one of its magistrates. Attending, in common with other members of the family, Dinny sat through the proceedings in a state of passive protest. The sworn evidence of six Bolivian muleteers, testifying to the shooting and to its being unprovoked; Hubert’s countering statement, the exhibition of his scar, his record, and the evidence of Hallorsen, formed the material on which the magistrate was invited to come to his decision. He came to it. ‘Remanded’ till the arrival of the defendant’s supporting evidence. That principle of British law, ‘A prisoner is presumed innocent till he is proved guilty,’ so constantly refuted by its practice, was then debated in regard to bail, and Dinny held her breath. The idea of Hubert, just married, being presumed innocent in a cell, while his evidence crossed the Atlantic, was unbearable. The considerable bail offered by Sir Conway and Sir Lawrence, however, was finally accepted, and with a sigh of relief she walked out, her head held high. Sir Lawrence joined her outside.
‘It’s lucky,’ he said, ‘that Hubert looks so unaccustomed to lying.’
‘I suppose,’ murmured Dinny, ‘this will be in the papers.’
‘On that, my nymph, you may bet the buttoned boots you haven’t got.’
‘How will it affect Hubert’s career?’
‘I think it will be good for him. The House of Commons questions were damaging. But “British Officer versus Bolivian Half-Castes,” will rally the prejudice we all have for our kith and kin.’
‘I’m more sorry for Dad than for anybody. His hair is distinctly greyer since this began.’
‘There’s nothing dishonourable about it, Dinny.’
Dinny’s head tilted up.
‘No, indeed!’
‘You remind me of a two-year-old, Dinny – one of those whipcordy chestnuts that kick up their heels in the paddock, get left at the post, and come in first after all. Here’s your American bearing down on us. Shall we wait for him? He gave very useful evidence.’
Dinny shrugged her shoulders, and almost instantly Hallorsen’s voice said:
‘Miss Cherrell!’
Dinny turned.
‘Thank you very much, Professor, for what you said.’
‘I wish I could have lied for you, but I had no occasion. How is that sick gentleman?’
‘All right so far.’
‘I am glad to hear that. I have been worried thinking of you.’
‘What you said, Professor,’ put in Sir Lawrence, ‘about not being seen dead with any of those muleteers hit the magistrate plumb centre.’
‘To be seen alive with them was bad enough. I’ve an automobile here, can I take you and Miss Cherrell anywhere?’
‘You might take us to the borders of civilization, if you’re going West.’
‘Well, Professor,’ continued Sir Lawrence, when they were seated, ‘what do you think of London? Is it the most barbarous or the most civilized town on earth?’
‘I just love it,’ said Hallorsen, without ever taking his eyes off Dinny.
‘I don’t,’ murmured Dinny; ‘I hate the contrasts and the smell of petrol.’
‘Well, a stranger can’t tell why he loves London, unless it’s the variety and the way you’ve gotten freedom and order all mixed up; or maybe it’s because it’s so different from our towns over there. New York is more wonderful and more exciting, but not so homey.’
‘New York,’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘is like strychnine. It perks you up until it lays you out.’
‘I certainly couldn’t live in New York. The West for me.’
‘The great open spaces,’ murmured Dinny.
‘Why yes, Miss Cherrell; you would love them.’
Dinny smiled wanly. ‘No one can be pulled up by the roots, Professor.’
‘Ah!’ said Sir Lawrence, ‘my son once took up the question of Emigration in Parliament. He found that people’s roots were so strong that he had to drop it like a hot potato.’