"I didn't murder him! I didn't! You can't think that!"
"Were the footprints yours?" North asked.
She got up jerkily. "Yes! They were mine!" she flung at him.
Sally gave a groan. "How not to break the news!" she said. "For God's sake, try to stop looking like something carved out of the solid rock, John! Holy mackerel, to think I've written books about people like you, and never believed a word of it!"
North disregarded her, addressing his wife. "No doubt I shall seem to you unwarrantably intrusive, but I should like to know why you visited Fletcher in this apparently clandestine fashion?"
"I went to see him because he's - he was - a friend of mine. There was nothing clandestine about our relations. I don't expect you to believe that, but it's true!"
Sally polished her eyeglass. "Questioned, Miss Sally Drew, an eminent writer of detective fiction, corroborated that statement."
"You are a somewhat partial witness, Sally," North said dryly. "Oh, don't look so belligerent, Helen! I merely asked out of curiosity. It's really quite beside the point. What seems to me to be more important is what, if anything, you know about the murder?"
"Nothing, nothing!"
"When were you with Fletcher?" he asked.