“Why did you want the world to believe that Sir Philip Clevedon had been stabbed to death?”
She did not move so much as an eyelid.
“Was it in order that suspicion might be cast on Miss Kitty, who had been wearing that hatpin?”
She rose from her seat and passed her left hand with a gesture of utter weariness across her forehead.
“Send for your policeman,” she said, “and let me be arrested. You have no right to torture me. I would sooner go to prison. I would rather be hanged than listen to you any longer.”
I stood up, too, and going towards her, laid a hand on her arm.
“I have not willingly tortured you,” I said gently, “but I had to learn the truth.”
“I have denied everything,” she replied. “I admit nothing.”
“You have denied everything—and admitted everything,” I said.
“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.