Wolfe spoke, with no change in his tone or tempo, to her receding back:
“When your mind leaves murder for money again, let me know and we’ll talk it over.”
I was feeling disgruntled. Granting that Skinner’s bomb had filled the air with fragments, after all the trouble I had taken to bring her there I saw no sense in his shoving her off like that just to hear himself talk. At least I wasn’t going to aid and abet by opening doors; I sat. Then I saw her feet were dragging, and with her hand on the knob she stopped and stood there with her back to us. After a few seconds of that she turned abruptly, marched back to the red chair, and sat down.
She looked at Wolfe and said, “I stayed because I was sitting there thinking about something.”
He nodded. “Just so,” he said pleasantly. “Did you get anywhere?”
“Yes. I did. I made a decision. I was going to tell you what it was, and before I got a chance you jumped on me, about my being in a pickle and being scared half to death. I’m not scared, Mr. Wolfe.” Her eyes, leveled at him, certainly didn’t look scared, and her voice didn’t sound like it. “You can’t browbeat me. The last time I was in a panic was when I swallowed a live frog at the age of two. I wouldn’t be now, even if I had murdered Mr. Hawthorne myself.”
“That’s fine. I like spunk. What was the decision you made?”
“I’m not sure I’m going to tell you. I’m not sure but what, after all, it would be better to let it be a fight instead of a compromise.”
“Then you haven’t really made a decision.”
“Yes, I have. And I think — I’ll stick to it. I assure you I wasn’t frightened into it, but certainly I made it because of this — this news. I’m not in any pickle now, but I have sense enough to know that with the whole Hawthorne gang for bitter enemies I might be. With their position and influence. They can have half the estate. Half of what was left to me.”