“Then you trot off, darling, and leave me to have a talk with the Chief Inspector,” Lindale said, propelling her gently but firmly to the door.
She looked up at him, a little flushed, her mouth unsteady. The she jerked out: “All right!” and left the room.
Lindale shut the door behind her, and turned to look at Hemingway. “Sorry about that!” he said. “My wife is not only extremely highly-strung, but she's also firmly convinced that anyone not provided with a cast-iron alibi must instantly become a red-hot suspect, in the eyes of the police. Queer things, women!”
“I could see Mrs. Lindale was very nervous, of course,” said Hemingway noncommittally.
“As a matter of fact, she's very shy,” explained Lindale. “And she didn't like Warrenby. I can't make her believe that that doesn't constitute a reason for suspecting either of us of having shot him.”
“Do I take it that you didn't like him either, sir?”
“No, I didn't like him. No one did here. Bit of an outsider, you know. Not that we ever had much to do with him. We don't go out much: no time for it.”
“I understand you haven't lived here long?”
“No, we're newcomers. I bought this place a couple of years ago only.”
“It must be a change from stockbroking,” remarked Hemingway.