She stood still, watching him, and he looked up at her and then went on with his work without speaking, for now, as always, the appalling thought was perpetually in his mind: “Must she not have known what it was she had with her in the car when she went driving that night?”
After a little, she turned away, as if disappointed that he took no notice of her presence.
At once he raised himself from the task he had been bending over, and stood moodily watching the slim, graceful figure, about which hung such clouds of doubt and dread, and she, turning around suddenly, as if she actually felt the impact of his gaze, saw him, and saw the strange expression in his eyes.
“Why do you look at me like that?” she asked quickly, her soft and gentle tones a little shrill, as though swift fear had come upon her.
“Like what?” he mumbled.
“Oh, you know,” she cried passionately. “Am I to be the next?” she asked.
He started, and looked at her wonderingly, asking himself if these words of hers bore the grim meaning that his mind instantly gave them.
Was it possible that if she did know something of what was going on in this quiet country house, during these peaceful autumn days, she knew it not as willing accomplice, but as a helpless, destined victim who saw no way of escape.
As if she feared she had said too much, she turned and began to walk away.
At once he followed.