"What's that got to do with it?"
"This," said Vicky, waving a hand to indicate the opulence of her surroundings. "It came over me in a wave. Such a lonely, sad-looking figure, lost in the cushions of the great, sombre car. I think I was left a widow frightfully young, and all my fabulous wealth is simply dust and ashes in my mouth. Though I rather like the idea of being a notorious woman with a shocking reputation, only no one guesses the tragedy that lies in my past, and made me what I am."
"Come out!" said Hugh, leaning into the car, and grasping one slim wrist somewhat ungently.
"Oh, did you happen to think you'd got the slightest right to order me about?" inquired Vicky in silken accents.
"Don't you argue with me!" replied Hugh. "Out you come!"
Vicky, dragged relentlessly out of the car, stamped her foot, and said: "Let me go, you horrible beast! I loathe and detest you!"
"You'll have cause to, if you make any further public exhibition of yourself," Hugh assured her.
Vicky was just about to retort in kind when she caught sight of Inspector Hemingway, an admiring spectator. She promptly recoiled, lifting her free hand to her throat, and uttering faintly: 'Ah! You! You've come to arrest me!"
"Well, I don't mind arresting you, just to oblige," offered the Inspector. "I'm never one to spoil another person's big scene, and I haven't anything particular on this morning."
"For God's sake, don't encourage her!" said Hugh.