He found Beulah and the housekeeper seated one on either side of the electric stove in the library. Beulah had thrown off her hat, but she still wore her tweed coat, into the pockets of which she had dug her hands. She looked white, and frightened. Mrs. Foston, who rose at the Chief Inspector's entrance, had been quietly knitting.. She folded up the work, and said: "If you please, sir, Miss Birtley and I have thought it best to send for Miss Cynthia's aunt, Miss Pickhill."
"Quite right," said Hemingway.
"I have also sent for Mr.. Harte!" Beulah said.
"Well, you've got a perfect right to send for anyone you like," replied Hemingway. "Anyone else you've rung up?"
"No."
"That's good. It wouldn't really help any of us to have half London here. Thanks, Mrs. Foston, I won't keep you any longer."
Mrs. Foston glanced at Beulah. "That's as may be, sir, but if Miss Birtley would like me to stay with her I'm very willing. Because no one's going to make me believe a young lady would go and do such a nasty, cruel thing, whatever Thrimby may say! A piece of my mind is what he's going to get, before he's much older!"
"You go and give it to him right now!" Hemingway advised her. "You won't do any good staying here, and whoever told you the police go around with thumbscrews in their pockets told you a lie: we aren't allowed to."
"It's all right!" Beulah said, forcing up a smile. "I shan't answer any questions until Mr.. Harte arrives."
"Well, if you're sure, miss!" Mrs. Foston said.