"Frankly, I am."

She smiled good-humoredly.

"I knew it quite well. You are not conceited. You do not believe,
as so many men would, that I have fallen in love with you. You
think that there must be some object, and you ask yourself all the
time, 'What is it?' in your heart, Mr. Laverick, I wonder whether
you have any idea."

Her voice had fallen almost to a whisper. She looked at him with a
suggestion of stealthiness from under her eyelids, a look which only
needed the slightest softening of her face to have made it something
almost irresistible.

"I can assure you," Laverick said firmly, "that I have no idea."

"Do you remember almost my first question to you?" she asked.

"It was about the murder. You seemed interested in the fact that
my office was within a few yards of the passage where it occurred."

"Quite right," she admitted. "I see that your memory is very good.
There, then, Mr. Laverick, you have the secret of my desire to meet
you."

Laverick drank his wine slowly. The woman knew! Impossible! Her
eyes were watching his face, but he held himself bravely. What
could she know? How could she guess?