Then there followed a battle royal between the two of them, and the ugly little spitfire was for a full ten minutes persuasive, cutting, rude, and threatening in turn, but the doctor sat unmoved through it all. He refused even to answer “Yes” or “No” to the many leading questions that were put to him, and beyond saying that he had no idea that Miss Palfreeman was the girl he had known in Shanghai until he met her at the club, and that she was about eighteen years old when he returned to England, he replied, “I have nothing more to say” to every question.
Eventually Allport gave up the unequal contest and turned his attention to Ethel. How long had she known Dr. Wallace? Did she know that he knew Stella before she asked her to stay at Dalehouse for the tournament? Some of his questions were brutal, I thought, and seemed to be framed with a view to causing the maximum of annoyance, and I felt that it was only the realization of the danger in which the doctor stood that made her able to bear the ordeal.
“I understand you are engaged to be married to Mr. Dane?”
“No.”
“No? But I certainly understood that you were.”
Ethel crimsoned and was silent, and Kenneth burst out with an angry, “But I say, that can’t have anything to do with Miss Palfreeman’s death.”
Allport held up his fat podgy little hand in angry protest. “That you must please leave for me to decide. Either you must answer my questions or we must deal with the matter in a more formal manner.” This he said with a threatening glance at the doctor.
There was silence, and he continued.
“Come now, Miss Hanson, why did you break off your engagement?”
Poor Ethel was very near to tears, but she started her answer bravely. “We differed over Dr. Wallace—Mr. Dane objected—oh! But I can’t tell you.” It was too much for her and she put her elbows on the table and buried her face in her hands. It was all ghastly, and I felt that a public inquiry could not be worse than these intimate exposures. But Allport was immovable, inexorable.