“She forged her husband’s name to a cheque⁠—a silly thing to do because the forgery was bound to become known. I can understand a distracted woman in a moment of folly giving way to an impulse. But she did an even more foolish thing. She found out who was the divisional detective inspector and tried to bribe him with one of the hundred pound notes that were part of the proceeds of her fraud. On that same day an even more serious crime took place at her husband’s house. I don’t believe that she had any direct concern in that, but as soon as the news reached her by telephone, and she learned that the man she had tried to bribe was there, in charge of the investigation, she lost her head completely. That night she drove secretly to London and tried to murder the detective. Forgery is nasty, madam, but attempted murder is an even uglier thing.”

The detective flattered himself that he had filled in the gaps in his recital neatly. He had watched every change in the weak pretty face of the woman from anger and astonishment to fear.