"Timothy, I would much prefer to be alone!"
"That," said Timothy, "is quite another matter. Go with God, my child!"
Upon entering the boudoir, Beulah could not forbear casting one shrinking glance towards the chair beside the telephone-table. It was, of course, empty, and she seemed to breathe more easily. Hemingway, who had equipped himself, at the start of his interrogations, with one of the small tables with which the room was generously provided, rose from behind it, and invited her to take the seat he had placed opposite to his own. He then requested her, in an official tone, to furnish him with her full name.
She said, in her brusque way: 'Beulah Birtley. I've already told the police that once tonight."
"I know you have," replied Hemingway. "What I'm asking you for is your full name." Across the little table, their eyes met, hers challenging, his mildly enquiring. "I remember Beulah," said Hemingway conversationally.
"But there was another Christian name, foreign, I think; and Birtley wasn't the surname."
"I don't know what you're talking about!"
"Yes, you do," Hemingway said. "I've got a good memory for faces, and yours isn't one I'd forget easily."
"You are mistaken. You may think you know me, but I've never seen you before in my life!"
"No, you wouldn't have noticed me: I wasn't concerned in your case. But I happened to be in Court that day. So now let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? It doesn't do you any good to tell me lies, and it's very wearing for me. Name?"