“What about it?” Bertha asked.
“That’s my wife’s machine.”
The door from the outer office opened. Carlotta Goldring, her prominent blue eyes taking in everything and everybody in the room, said, “There was no one in the reception-room, so I came on in. I hope I’m not—”
No one paid any attention to her. Bertha Cool pointed her finger at Imogene. “Look at her. You can tell I’ve called the turn. The twerp may have managed to write these letters on your wife’s machine at your house, but she wrote those letters! She—”
“It’s a lie!” Imogene screamed. “And what’s more, the portable I have at home isn’t a Remington. It’s a Corona!”
Carlotta, wide-eyed, moved around to the edge of the room, stopped near the fireplace, her back to the fire, regarding the scene with speechless amazement.
“Try to deny that you’re in love with your boss,” Bertha accused. “Try to deny that you thought if you could only get rid of his wife, you’d have easy sailing; that you wrote these letters—”
“Wait a minute,” Belder interrupted. “She couldn’t have done it, Mrs. Cool. She wrote that memo one day when I had my wife’s machine at the office — taking it home after an overhaul. Imogene tried it out. I remember the whole thing very clearly now.”
“Then she wrote both letters that same day,” Bertha charged.
“She couldn’t have. That was before either of these women — before Dolly entered the picture.”