He pulled himself together. “Do you wish me to make certain?”
Rising, he lounged over to the piano as though to select a sheet from the pile of music. In a flash he turned, wrenching wide the doors of the French-window, and was across the step in a bound. Nothing rose from the shadows to disturb the peace of the night. Stooping by the bushes, he made a hurried examination.
“Come,” he called. Then, seeing how she pressed her hands against her mouth, “There's no need to fear.”
When she was standing by his side, he explained: “To-morrow you might think that I'd tricked you. I want you to see for yourself. Here's where he was hiding when he peered in on me. The ground's trampled. The bushes are bent back.”
“He may be still here,” she whispered, “in the garden—somewhere.”
Hindwood smiled reassuringly into her upturned face. “He wouldn't do you any harm if he were. Remember he's a secret service agent. As a matter of fact, he ought to make you feel safe.”
“Safe!” She knotted her hands against her breast. “Shall I ever feel safe? Oh, if I could confess—to you, to any one!”
“If it would help——”
Without giving him a chance to finish his sentence, she plucked at his sleeve with the eagerness of a child. “Would you?”
“What?”