Her voice broke artistically, and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. It was all very cleverly done, and I confess I admired her, though that did not turn me from my purpose. I have had to deal with women in all sorts of moods and every possible disguise, though Kitty Clevedon at that moment was less a woman than a clue in skirts and furs.
“The matter is quite simple,” I said, deliberately brutal, in the hope of startling her out of her calm. “I was only wondering what view the police, for example, would take of your midnight adventure.”
“You had better go and tell them,” she flamed out. “They might believe you, you know.”
“You were in my house on that night,” I said, and waited to see if she would deny the visit even to me.
“So you said before,” she retorted.
“Do you, then, wish to deny that you were in my house on that night?”
“Would you believe me if I did deny it?”
“Of course not—how could I?”
“Then why should I trouble to deny it? You ask me a question and answer it for me, and tell me you will not believe me unless I adopt your answer. That is a convenient method of cross-examining—put the question and invent the answer.”
“And yet you will not deny it—why not deny it and have done with it?”