The Inspector smiled politely. “Yes, miss, naturally. Might I ask if you are staying here?”

“God, no!”

The Inspector glanced at the brocade dressing-gown, and looked inquiring.

“Quite right, I spent the night here,” said the girl coolly. “Anything else you'd like to know?”

“Did you come down with Mr Vereker, miss?”

“No, I didn't. I haven't seen Mr Vereker.”

“Indeed, miss? Was he not expecting you?”

A rather hard glint crept into the girl's fine eyes. “Well, everything was very nicely prepared, but I don't fancy it was on my account. But what the hell it has to do with -” She broke off, and laughed suddenly. “Oh, I see! Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not a burglar - though I did get in through a window. The dressing-gown is merely borrowed till my skirt's dry.”

The Inspector directed his gaze towards the skirt. “I quite understand, miss. Must have been a bad stain, if I may say so.”

“Blood,” said the girl between sips of coffee.

Constable Dickenson gave a slight gasp. “Blood?” said the Inspector evenly.

The girl set down her cup, and met his look with a belligerent gleam in her eyes. “Just what do you want with me?” she demanded.

“I'd like to know how you came to get blood on your skirt, miss,” said the Inspector.

“Yes? Well, I should like to know what right you have to ask me that - or anything else for that matter. Get on with it! What is it you're after?”

The Inspector drew out his note-book. “There's no need to take offence, miss. We've had a little upset in these parts last night, and I have to find out one or two details. May I have your name and address, please?”