"Eh?" cried Stamer, not that he did not hear and understand, but in order that he might get the story re-told.
Timmons went over the principal points again.
"An accident! An accident!" cried Timmons, drawing up in front of Stamer and looking at him in perplexity.
"Well, what could be plainer, Mr. Timmons? Of course, it was an accident. Why should I hurt a man who never hurt me?"
"They have to prove that. They _can't_ prove _I_ rounded on a pal. I can get a hundred witnesses to character."
"But the coppers _know_ I'm a straight man."
"They would hardly come to speak for you. It's someone from Portland would give you a character. But you know you fired the shot."
"At a screech-owl, my lord, at a screech-owl, my lord, that was flying across the street. You don't suppose, my lord, I'd go and round on a pal of Mr. Timmons's and my own?"
Timmons glared at him. "But the man is dead, and someone shot him."
"Well, my lord, except Mr. Timmons--and to save him I risked my own life, and would lay it down, and am ready to lay it down now or any time it may please your lordship--unless Mr. Timmons goes into the box and swears my life away, you can prove nothing against me, my lord."
"After all," said Timmons, looking through half-closed critical eyes at Stamer, "after all, the man has some brains."
"And a straight man for a friend in Mr. John Timmons."
Stamer stood up and approached Timmons. "You'll shake hands on that, Mr. Timmons?"
"I will." Timmons gave him his hand. "And now," he added, "I don't think you know the good news."
"Why, Forbes's bakery was burned out last night."
"Hurroo!" cried Stamer, with a yell of sudden relief and joy. "My lord, you haven't a single bit of evidence against Tom Stamer. My lord, good-bye. Mr. John Timmons and Tom Stamer against the world!"
The morning following Hanbury's visit to Grimsby Street saw the order of arrival of the ladies in the sitting-room reversed. Mrs. Grace was there first. Edith had been too excited when she went to bed after the young man's disclosures to sleep, and it was not until the small hours were growing big that the girl could close her eyes. As a consequence, she was late.
But when at last she did awake, how different were her feelings from the day before! She could scarcely believe she was the same being, or it was the same world. That letter from Mr. Coutch, of Castleton, had plunged her into a depth of leaden hopelessness she had never known before. Now all was changed. Then she was the last of a race of shopkeepers; now she had for cousin a man whose ancestor had been a king. Whatever fate might do against her in the future, it could never take away that consoling consciousness. At Miss Graham's in Streatham the girls used to say she ought to be a queen. Well, a not very remote relative of hers would have sat on a throne if she had lived and come into her rights! Prodigious.