He found it difficult to strike a satisfactory balance in his attitude to her. On the one hand, it was impossible to be distant and formal in view of the fact that they were united in keeping from the police the secret of her presence at Cliff Farm on the night of the murder; on the other hand, he did not wish to adopt a tone of friendly familiarity based on his knowledge that she had something to hide. When he studied her from the young man’s point of view as merely an attractive member of the opposite sex he felt that she was a charming girl whose affection any one might be proud to win, but his security against her charms was the feeling of distrust that any one so good-looking should have anything to hide. He had no sentimental illusion that she would confide her secret to him.
She waited for him to continue the conversation, and pretended to be engaged in glancing round the room, but from time to time she gave him a quick glance from beneath her long lashes.
“What I wanted to tell you most of all is that, when I went back to Cliff Farm the next day, the detective from Scotland Yard found a comb on the floor of the sitting-room downstairs where we sat after you let me in.”
“A comb!” she cried. “What sort of a comb?”
“A tortoise-shell comb about three inches long, with a gold mounting.”
“That is strange,” she said. “It was found on the floor?”
“Close to the chair where you stood.”
“Do they know whom it belongs to?”
“No, fortunately. But they are very anxious to find out. Naturally they think it points to the conclusion that there is a woman in the case.”
“Of course they would think that,” she said.