"Does it matter?" she snapped up my words, "Am I to be treated as if—as though—"
Even Ina Vandeman's effrontery wouldn't carry her to a finish on that. I completed it for her, explicitly,
"Mrs. Vandeman, whether you are detained as an accomplice or merely a material witness, I'm responsible for you. I would have the authority to allow you to go with your sister; but you'll not be permitted to even enter the bungalow."
"It's nearly midnight," she protested. "I have no clothes but this costume. I must go home."
"Oh, come on!" Skeet pleaded. "Don't you see that doesn't do any good, Ina? You can get something at our house to wear."
She gave me a long look, her chin still high, her eyes hard and unreadable. Then, "For the present, I shall go to a hotel." She laid a hand on Skeet's shoulder, but it was only to push her away. "Tell mother," evenly, "that I'll not bring my trouble into her house. Oh—you want Ernestine and Cora? Well, get them and go." And with firm step she walked to her car.
I nodded to Cummings.
"Have one of Dykeman's men pick her up and hang tight," I said, and he smiled back understandingly, with,
"Already done, Boyne. I want to speak to Miss Wallace—if I may. Will you please see for me?"
A moment later, he marched shining and jingling, in through a door that he left open behind him, pulled off his Roman helmet as though it had been a hat, and stood unconsciously fumbling that shoe-brush thing they trim those ancient lids with.