He took her by the shoulders, and thrust her into her chair again. "Get this, and get it good!" he said roughly. "You're to keep out of this!"
"There's no more reason for him to suspect you than me! Uncle accused me of wanting to murder him, not you!"
"You keep your misguided trap shut," said Stephen. "You're a good kid, but boneheaded." His sardonic gaze flickered over the other members of the house-party, taking in Joseph's look of misery, Mathilda's white rigidity, the thinly-veiled satisfaction in Mottisfont's eyes, the relief in Roydon's. He gave a short laugh, and went out.
The Inspector was looking out of the window when Stephen entered the room, but he turned at the sound of the opening door, and said: 'Good-morning, sir. Looks like the thaw has set in properly."
Stephen eyed him in some surprise. "How true!" he said. "Shall we cut the cackle?"
"Just as you like, sir," Hemingway replied, "What I came for was to give you back your cigarette-case."
He held it out as he spoke, and had the satisfaction of seeing that he had succeeded in startling this uncomfortably brusque young man.
"What the hell!" Stephen demanded, his eyes lifting from the case to Hemingway's face. "What kind of a damned silly joke do you imagine you're playing?"
"Oh, I'm not playing any joke!" responded Hemingway.
Stephen took the case, and stood holding it, "I thought this was your most valuable piece of evidence?"