"Oh, shut up!"
Feeling that there was little to be gained by prolonging the interview, Hemingway closed his notebook, and picked up his hat. Guisborough's fiery, dark eyes searched his face. "Why did you want to know? What's happened?" He paused. "Or is it a police mystery?"
"Oh, no, my lord, there's no mystery! You'll very likely read all about it in tomorrow's papers, so I've no objection to telling you that Mrs. Haddington has been murdered."
Whatever Lord Guisborough's reply to this may have been it was lost in the sudden crack of laughter that burst from his sister. She gasped: "Oh, go on! That's too ripe! And who had the nerve to do in that old battle-axe? He has my vote!"
Lord Guisborough grasped her by the shoulders, and gave her a vicious shake. "Stop it!" he commanded. "Stop it, I say! It's not funny! You're tight, Trix!"
She choked, but her laughter ceased. "Well, you needn't look so utter about it! You didn't do it, did you?"
"Of course I didn't do it! Why the hell should I? Pull yourself together, for God's sake!"
She looked at Hemingway. "Is that why you came here? Because Lance - oh, it's too fat-headed! You might as well suspect me! Who really did it?"
"Can't you see he doesn't know?" said Guisborough savagely. "Probably the same man who killed Seaton-Carew!"
"What makes you say that, my lord?" asked Hemingway.