"He was killed before eleven," she went on remorselessly, "and you told me he was in the club with you at that time."
"You don't believe me." He held out his arms to her imploringly, and then dropped them to his side. "I give you my word that everything I have told you is true. Why should I lie now?"
She wheeled on him passionately.
"You ask me that?" she said tensely. "You who thought he was in your way—that what you could not gain while he was living you might take when he
was dead. Do you think your smooth-faced hypocrisy deceives me now? You pretended to accept your dismissal, pretended to be still my friend—and his."
Her anger disconcerted the man more than her anguish had done. His breath caught sharply.
"You don't realise what you are saying," he said, speaking calmly with an effort. "Because I once loved you—love you still if you will—before ever Robert Grell came into your life, you hint an unthinkable thing."
She crossed the room in a graceful swirl of draperies, and laid a finger on the bell. Her features were set. She was in no state to weigh the justice or injustice of the implied accusation she had made. And the man, for his part, felt his oppression brushed away by anger at her readiness to judge him.
"We shall see whether the police believe it unthinkable," she said coldly.
A servant tapped discreetly and opened the door.