Hemingway opened the door, and pushed her gently over the threshold. Having shut her out of the room, he turned and looked Beulah over. "You do get yourself into some awkward situations, don't you?" he remarked genially.
He caught her off her guard. "This is the worst I've been in yet! You needn't think I don't know that! I suppose you've already been told that I had a row with Mrs. Haddington this morning?"
"Oh, yes, I know all about that! Used threatening language, didn't you? Silly thing to do, if you meant to murder her!"
"I didn't murder her!"
"All right, let's start from there! When did you leave the house?"
"I'm not going to say any more than that! I know just where talking to the police gets you!"
"Listen!" said Hemingway patiently. "I'm quite prepared to believe you had a raw deal eighteen months ago. Suppose you have a shot at believing that I'm not the Big, Bad Wolf? I'm not even Inspector Underbarrow: in fact, far from it!"
"If you mean the Inspector who dealt with my case -"
"I do, and that's all we'll say about him. He's all right in his way, but it isn't my way, and the sooner you tumble to that the better we'll get on together."
"I expect this is the velvet glove?" said Beulah. "I didn't murder Mrs. Haddington - and that's all!"