It was with considerable relief that Miss Winslow saw the two
again climbing up the slope in the direction of the road.

A few minutes later we were on our way back, Dr. Mead and Garrick
leading the way in the doctor's car, while I accompanied Miss
Winslow in her own car.

She said little, and it was plain to see that she was consumed by
anxiety. Now and then she would ask a question about the accident,
and although I tried in every way to divert her mind to other
subjects she unfailingly came back to that.

Tempering the details as much as I could I repeated for her just
what had happened to the best of our knowledge.

"And you have no idea who it could have been?" she asked turning
those liquid eyes of hers on my face.

If there were any secret about it, it was perhaps fortunate that I
did not know. I don't think I am more than ordinarily susceptible
and I know I did not delude myself that Miss Winslow ever could be
anything except a friend to either Garrick or myself. But I felt I
could not resist the appeal in those eyes. I wondered if even
they, by some magic intuition, might not pierce the very soul of
man and uncover a lying heart. I felt that Warrington could not
have been other than he said he was and still have been hastening
to meet those eyes.

"Miss Winslow," I answered, "I have no more idea than you have who
it could be."