She looked up at him squarely. "About me?"
"Probably."
Her hands kneaded themselves together. She said bitterly: "If you think I did this why did you give me back my gun? I might easily shoot you too."
"I don't think it. But I should very much like to know what you were doing here at this hour and why you carry a gun."
She was silent. He said, after a moment's pause: "Not exactly communicative, are you?"
"Why should I be? You're not a policeman."
"Just as well for you I'm not. You'd better burn that handkerchief." He turned away towards his own car.
She got up, surprised and uncertain. "Are you - are you letting me go?" she asked, staring after him.
He opened the door of the Bentley. "I'm not a policeman," he reminded her over his shoulder.
"But - but why?" she persisted.