"Miss Haddington," said Hemingway, "I don't want to make things any more unpleasant for you than what they are already, but if you don't give me that compact I shall have to. You see, I'm going to inspect it, whether you want me to or not, and it will be very much better for you to give it to me without any more fuss."
She began to cry again, but when Hemingway unclasped her fingers from about the compact she only feebly resisted.
Inspector Grant said: "Will you give it to me, if you please, sir?"
He took it from Hemingway, and walked over to the window with it, standing there with his back to the room, his head a little bent. After a moment, he glanced over his shoulder. Hemingway went to him, while Miss Pickhill and Mr.. Eddleston stared at him. Cynthia had collapsed on the day-bed, and was sobbing into one of its opulent cushions. The Inspector said nothing at all, but showed Hemingway the compact, lying in the palm of his hand. He had opened it, but no little powder-puff and mirror were disclosed. A very small quantity of white powder was all that met Hemingway's gaze. He looked up questioningly, and the Inspector nodded, shut the case, and opened it again, this time revealing mirror, puff, and powder-filter. Hemingway turned from him.
"Miss Haddington," he said, "I want to have a word with you. Now, I think it would be best if I saw you privately, but if you wish it you may have your aunt or Mr.. Eddleston with you."
She raised her head, gazing up at him out of terrified, tear-drowned eyes. "What are you going to do to me?"
"I'm going to ask you one or two questions, miss, and you may take it from me that if you answer me truthfully you've got nothing to be afraid of."
She seemed to be undecided; Miss Pickhill exclaimed: "I demand to be told what all this means!"
"No, no, don't!" shrieked Cynthia. "Please don't!"
"No, miss, I've no wish to do so. Suppose we were to go down to the drawing-room -just you and me, and Inspector Grant?"