“Down!” commanded Mrs. Ainstable. “I'm so sorry! Down, you idiot!”
Hemingway, having wrestled successfully with the setter's advances, and brushed the hairs from his coat, said: “Yes, you're a beauty, aren't you? Now, that'll do! Down!”
“How nice of you not to mind him!” said Mrs. Ainstable. “He isn't properly trained yet.” Her tired, strained eyes ran over the Chief Inspector. “You want to see my husband, I expect. He went down to the estate room a little while ago, so I'll take you there, shall I? It'll save time and since that's where he kept his rifle I'm sure you'd like to see the place.”
“Thank you, madam.”
Her light laugh sounded. “I don't think we've ever had so much excitement in Thornden before!”
“I should think you must hope you never will have again,” said Hemingway, following her down a passage to a door opening on to a rather overgrown shrubbery.
“I must admit that I wish it had never happened,” she replied. “So horrid to have a murder in one's midst! It worries my husband, too. He can't get over his belief that he's responsible for Thornden. Have you any idea who did it? Oh, I mustn't ask you that, must I? Particularly when my husband is one of the possibles. I wish I'd waited for him, and made him drive home with me.”
“You left the tennis-party early, didn't you, madam?”
“Yes, I only looked in for tea. I'm rather a crock, and don't play tennis. And it was so insufferably hot, that day!”
“Do you know what time it was when you left, madam?”