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Updated: June 21, 2025
She's coming down to help us eat it, I hope." "Just look at this basket of little cakes! I was saying to mother this minute that that was all we wanted." So the good things came, and the cheerful givers went, and Miss Butterworth took an occasional sip at her coffee, with a huge napkin at her throat, and tears in her eyes, not drawn forth by the delicate tortures in progress upon her person.
"Brigney, Goole and Butterworth know perfectly well that they have got us in a cleft stick. Butterworth knows it better than Goole, and Brigney knows it better than Butterworth. This young fool, Eggshaw, Sam, admits that he wrote the girl twenty-three letters, twelve of them in verse, and twenty-one specifically asking her to marry him, and he comes to me and expects me to get him out of it.
He was seeking an answer to a question that was still disturbing his mind, and hoped to find it there. He was not disappointed. For in a quiet corner he encountered the amiable form of Miss Butterworth, calmly awaiting the result of an interference which she in all probability had been an active agent in bringing about. He approached and smilingly accused her of this.
The motor car was driven by Tom Butterworth and in it sat his daughter Clara with her husband Hugh McVey. During the week before, Tom had brought the car from Cleveland, and the mechanic who rode with him had taught him the art of driving. Now he drove alone and boldly. Early in the evening he had run out to the farmhouse to take his daughter and son-in-law for their first ride.
Meanwhile we may light on those two young people ourselves. If so, the coroner may overlook your share in bringing them to our notice." There was a sly emphasis on the word, and a subtle humor in his look that showed the old detective at his worst. But Miss Butterworth did not resent it; she was too full of a fresh confession she had to make.
The horse stopped, but no one answered. It seemed, tired, poor animal, and stood with its head down and winking its eyes to keep the snow out of them. "Let us ride with you?" said Jimmie Butterworth politely. "I think some of us are lost." Sunny Boy moved closer to the wagon. He peered in where the driver should sit.
At all events, this is the way he responded to my half-curious, half-ironical question: "A crime planned and perpetrated for the purpose I have just mentioned, Miss Butterworth, could not have been a simple one under any circumstances.
They gathered around him, asking questions, all of which he good-naturedly answered. He seemed to be pleased with their society, as if he were only a big boy himself, and wanted to make the most of the limited time which his visit to the town afforded him. While he was thus standing as the center of an inquisitive and admiring group, Miss Butterworth came out of the town-hall.
The prim courtesy I made in acknowledgment of his good intention satisfied him that I had understood him fully; and changing his whole manner to one more in accordance with business, he observed after a moment's reflection: "You came to a conclusion this afternoon, Miss Butterworth, for which I should like some explanation.
Robb, it seems, didn't mean to face another election, and of late had privately spoken here and there of Butterworth." "Jams and pickles!" cried Lady Ogram, with a croaking laugh. "Will the Hollingford Tories stand that?" "Why not? Robb evidently thought they would, and he knew them. Butterworth is a stout Unionist, I'm told, and if he makes another million he may look for a peerage.
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