I was telling the truth and I felt that I could meet her gaze.

There must have been something about how I had phrased my answer
that caused her to look at me more searchingly than before.
Suddenly she turned her face away and gazed at the passing
landscape from the car.

She said nothing, but as I continued to watch her finely moulded
features, I saw that she was making an effort to control herself.
It flashed over me, somehow, that perhaps, after all, she herself
suspected someone. It was not that she said anything. It was
merely an indefinable impression I received.

Had Warrington any enemies, not in the underworld, but among those
of his own set, rivals, perhaps, who might even stoop to secure
the aid of those of the underworld who could be bought to commit
any crime in the calendar for a price? I did not pause to examine
the plausibility or the impossibility of such a theory. What
interested me was whether in her mind there was such a thought.
Had she, perhaps, really more of an idea than I who it could be?
She betrayed nothing of what her intuition told her, but I felt
sure that, even though she knew nothing, there was at least
something she feared.

At last we arrived at Dr. Mead's and I handed her out of the car
and into the tastefully furnished little house. There was an air
of quietness about it that often indefinably pervades a house in
which there is illness or a tragedy.