“Yes, always,” said Elsie stolidly. She had made up her mind not to say anything else.
“You didn’t quarrel?”
“No, never.”
“You’ll tell them that, won’t you, dearie? The police, I mean.”
“It’s nothing to do with them,” said Elsie childishly.
“Now don’t talk that way. That’s silly. You don’t seem to realise, my lady, the sort of mess you’re in.”
Mrs. Palmer’s voice rose to stridency as she let her fear and her temper get the mastery of her attempt at caution.
“My God, Elsie, can’t you see what it means? They may try you for murder. Murder—the same as the horrid common people in the newspapers. Who’s to know what happened—you and Horace in that empty street at one o’clock in the morning, and he gets done in, and whatever you may say—and mind you, I’ll back you up in it-they’ll get hold of the fact that you and poor Horace didn’t hit it off together.”
“We were quite happy together.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Palmer approvingly. “You stick to that.”