“After what happened here yesterday,” he said, speaking very clearly and deliberately, “I wonder you have the nerve to stay ...”
“My dear Horace,” said Robin quite impassively, “would you mind being a little more explicit? What precisely are you accusing me of? What have I done?”
“Done?” exclaimed the young man heatedly. “Done? Good God! Don’t you realize that you have dragged my sister into this wretched business? Don’t you understand that her name will be bandied about before a lot of rotten yokels at the inquest?”
Robin Greve’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“I confess,” he said, with elaborate politeness, “I scarcely understand what it has to do with me that Hartley Parrish should apparently commit suicide within a few days of becoming engaged to your sister ...”
“Ha!”
Horace Trevert snorted indignantly.
“You don’t understand, don’t you? We don’t understand either. But, I must say, we thought you did!”
With that he turned to go. But Robin caught him by the arm.
“Listen to me, Horace,” he said. “I’m not going to quarrel with you in this house of death. But you’re going to tell here and now what you meant by that remark. Do you understand? I’m going to know!”