"Came home."
"And when did you reach this house?"
"Look here!" demanded Guisborough. "What's all this leading up to?"
"If you'll answer my question, my lord, perhaps I'll answer yours."
"Damned if I will! I know you policemen! You're trying to catch me out or something! Minions of aristocratic power, that's what you are, the whole bloody lot of you! Upholding one law for the rich, and another -"
"You've got that wrong, my lord," interrupted Hemingway tartly. "It was a Turncock, not the police, and not aristocratic power either!"
"What the hell are you talking about?" said Gainsborough, staring at him.
"Dickens. He happens to be my favourite writer, that's all."
"Dickens!" exclaimed Guisborough, in accents of repulsion. "What do you suppose I care for him?"
"I'm sure I don't know, my lord, but that's no reason to go about misquoting him!" retorted Hemingway. "What's more, there's a time and a place for everything, and this isn't either the one or the other for Dickens! What I asked you was, when did you get back to this house after you left Charles Street today?"