’ ‘That’s just it,’ said Joan Ibstock shamefacedly. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. The more she disentangled the lines of her situation the deeper grew her self-disgust. That ring manifestly occupied her thoughts a great deal. It had showed up at an auction at Sotheby’s after someone had sold it. Once she had asked him: "Are you my father?" He had answered: "I am. Crocodile Tears. Then, naturally, I went on talking. It would put the whole adventure on a broader and better footing; it seemed, indeed, almost the only possible way in which she might emerge from her rebellion with anything like success.
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