“Hugh,” she inquired, “have you any idea who fired that shot?”
“None whatever,” he replied, “no definite idea, that is to say. It was some one who as driving a low, grey car. Do we know any one who possesses such a thing?”
She frowned. The exigencies of the traffic prevented her glancing towards him.
“Only Captain Granet,” she remarked, “and I suppose even your dislike of him doesn’t go so far as to suggest that he is likely to play the would-be murderer in broad daylight.”
“It certainly does seem a rather rash and unnecessary proceeding,” he assented, “but the fact remains that some one thought it worth while.”
“Some one with a grudge against the Chief Inspector of Hospitals,” she observed drily.
He did not reply. They drew up outside the War Office.
“Thank you very much,” he said, “for playing the Good Samaritan.”
She made a little grimace. Suddenly her manner became more earnest. She laid her fingers upon his arm as he stood on the pavement by her side.
“Hugh,” she said, “before you go let me tell you something. I think that the real reason why I lost some of my affection for you was because you persisted in treating me without any confidence at all. The little things which may have happened to you abroad, the little details of your life, the harmless side of your profession—there were so many things I should have been interested in. And you told me nothing. There were things which seemed to demand an explanation with regard to your position. You ignored them. You seemed to enjoy moving in a mysterious atmosphere. It’s worse than ever now. I am intelligent, am I not—trustworthy?”