"What are you going to do—arrest me? You are alone here."

"I do not think you would struggle and make a scene. I can't picture myself dragging you, dishevelled and breathless, into the street, and blowing a fanfare on my police whistle while you lacerated my face with your nails."

"No, that would be too undignified."

She began to weep, not noisily or with ugly distortions of her face, but beautifully. Her eyes flooded and then overflowed. She held her handkerchief over them for a moment.

"I'm cold," she said.

He took the eiderdown cover off the bed and gave it to her. It slipped out of her hands and she looked at him helplessly. He put it round her, tucking it into the chair. Suddenly she seized the collar of his coat.

"Look at me!" said Stephanie Vaughan. "Look at me. Do I look like a murderess?"

He took her wrists and tried to pull them down, but she clung to his coat.

"I promise you I didn't mean what I said in that letter. I wanted to frighten him. He threatened me. I only wanted to frighten him."

He wrenched her hands away, and straightened himself.

"You've hurt me," she said.

"You obliged me to. We'd better not prolong this business."

"At least let me explain myself. If, after you've heard me, you still think I'm guilty, I'll go with you without another word."

"I must warn you—"

"I know. But I must speak. Sit down for five minutes and listen to me. I won't bolt. Lock the door, if you like."

"Very well."

He locked the door and pocketed the key. Then he sat on the end of the bed, and waited.