"Certainly. I simply reported the fact to police headquarters that I am being kept a prisoner in my bedroom."
She eyed him squarely, the yellow flecks in her grey irises plainly apparent. For two seconds she flashed him a challenge, while he regarded her steadily in complete silence. Then with a sudden softer air and a little gesture of appeal, she turned to the officer in charge and spoke rapidly in French.
"This is the gentleman, monsieur, my stepson, Mr. Roger Clifford."
"Your stepson, madame?" reiterated the man in a shocked tone.
"Yes, monsieur, the son of my late husband, Sir Charles Clifford, who has been dead less than a week."
There was a slight tremor in her voice, and, Roger could almost have sworn, tears in her eyes. The officers averted their eyes decorously, while Roger gazed at her with aloof impersonality, simply curious. He watched her score her point and wondered just how far she intended to pursue the advantage. What was her plan? Was she, after all, technically innocent, able to prove the fact? Or was this a bold stratagem, to throw dust in his eyes? He was totally unable to choose between the two diametrically opposed theories.
The officer in charge shot a black glance at him and made ready to write further particulars.
"Pray proceed, madame. Will you kindly inform me as to the exact nature of this gentleman's conduct towards yourself."
"Monsieur, it is simply what I told you on the telephone. My stepson, who is a guest in my house, had the audacity to force me, under threats, to enter my room, after which he turned the key on me."
The man looked nonplussed, but intensely respectful.