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John Henry Colclough of Tintern Abbey; but all these gentlemen were arrested on Saturday, the 26th of May the same day, or more strictly speaking, the eve of the day on which the Wexford outbreak occurred.
Why, my good sir, there's practically no such thing as class distinction here. Both my grandfathers were working potters. Colclough's father was a joiner who finished up as a builder. If Colclough makes money and chooses to go to Paris and get the best motor-car he can, why in Hades shouldn't his wife ride in it?
'The other sister is Mrs Oliver Colclough, he answered. 'Curious, ain't it? Again there was that swift, scarcely perceptible phenomenon in his eyes. We stood at the corner of the side-street and the main road, and down the main road a vast, white rectangular cube of bright light came plunging its head rising and dipping at express speed, and with a formidable roar.
I was convinced that the contributing cause to the presence of the late Simon Fuge in the boat on Ilam Lake on the historic night was Annie the superior barmaid, and not Sally of the automobile. But Mrs Colclough, if not beautiful, was a very agreeable creation. Her amplitude gave at first sight an exaggerated impression of her age; but this departed after more careful inspection.
'No, I said, feeling in my pockets; 'I must have left it at your house. 'Well, she said, 'that's strange. I looked for it to show it to Mrs Colclough, but I couldn't see it. This was not surprising. I did not want Mrs Colclough to read the journalistic obituary until she had given me her own obituary of Fuge.
They seem to have thought quite a lot of him in London, then? 'Oh, rather! I said. 'I suppose your sister knew him pretty well? 'Annie? I don't know. She knew him. I distinctly observed a certain self-consciousness in Mrs Colclough as she made this reply. Mrs Brindley had risen and with wifely attentiveness was turning over the music page for her husband.
'Let her zip, said Mr Colclough. They began to play. And then the door opened, and a servant, whose white apron was starched as stiff as cardboard, came in carrying a tray of coffee and unholy liqueurs, which she deposited with a rattle on a small table near the hostess. 'Curse! muttered Mr Brindley, and stopped. 'Life's very complex, ain't it, Bob? Mr Colclough murmured.
'Mrs Brindley has been telling me that Simon Fuge is dead, said Mrs Colclough brightly, as though Mrs Brindley had been telling her that the price of mutton had gone down. I perceived that those two had been talking over Simon Fuge, after their fashion. 'Oh yes, I responded. 'Have you got that newspaper in your pocket, Mr Loring? asked Mrs Brindley. I had.
'Better take your dust-coat off, hadn't you? Mrs Brindley suggested to the friend. She and I were side by side on a sofa at the other end of the room. 'I may as well, Mr Colclough admitted, and threw the long garment on to a chair. 'Look here, Bob, my hands are stiff with steering. 'Don't find fault with your tools, said Mr Brindley; 'and sit down. No, my boy, I'm going to play the top part.
The infant cried, expressing his own and his mother's grief at losing a guest. It seems as if people are born hospitable in the Five Towns. We had not walked more than a hundred yards up the road when a motor-car thundered down upon us from the opposite direction. It was Mr Colclough's, and Mr Colclough was driving it. Mr Brindley stopped his friend with the authoritative gesture of a policeman.
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