Almost immediately Special Investigator Dundee rose from his crouching position on the floor of Nita Selim's closet, and faced the chief of the Homicide Squad of Hamilton's police force.
"I think," he said quietly, for all the excitement that burned in his blue eyes, "that we'd better have Mrs. Miles in for a few questions."
"What have you got there—a dance program?" Strawn asked curiously, but as Dundee continued to stare silently at the thing he held, the older man strode to the door and relayed the order to a plainclothes detective.
"I sent for Mrs. Miles," Dundee said coldly, when husband and wife appeared together, Flora's thin, tense shoulders encircled by Tracey's plump arm.
"If you're going to badger my wife further, I intend to be present, sir!" Miles retorted, thrusting out his chest.
"Very well!" Dundee conceded curtly. "Mrs. Miles, why didn't you tell me in the first place that you were in this room when Nita Selim was shot?"
"Because I wasn't—in—in the room," Flora protested, clinging with both thin, big-veined hands to her husband's arm.
"Sir, you have no proof of this absurd accusation, and I shall personally take this matter up—"
"I have the best of proof," Dundee said quietly, and took his hand from his pocket. "You recognize this, Mrs. Miles?... You admit that it is the tally card you used while playing bridge this afternoon?"
"No, no! It isn't mine!" Flora cried hysterically, cringing against her husband, who began to protest in a voice falsetto with rage.