“Didn't like her making a friend of you, in fact?” Hemingway paused, but Ladislas only glared at him. “How was that?”
“I am Polish!” Ladislas uttered bitterly.
“He didn't, by any chance, get it into his head that you wanted to marry Miss Warrenby?”
“It is untrue!”
“All right, don't get excited! Did you see Mr. Warrenby when you went to the house on Saturday?”
“No!”
“Yes, you did. What was he doing?”
Ladislas broke into impassioned speech, the gist of the torrent of words which burst from him being that if he were not a foreigner the Chief Inspector would not dare to question him, or to doubt his word.
“In my job, we get into the way of doubting people's words,” said Hemingway equably. “Besides, you've got a trick of telling first one story and then another, which confuses me. You told Sergeant Carsethorn you didn't go to Fox House, and when he didn't believe that, you said you did. You told him you went to the back-door. Which leads me to think that you knew Mr. Warrenby was in the house, because you'd seen him. I daresay you reconnoitred a bit, and I'm sure I don't blame you, for he seems to have been the sort of man no one would have wanted to meet if they could have avoided it. So now you tell me just what did happen!”
This matter-of-fact speech appeared to damp Ladislas's passion.