It was very unpleasant to have the searchlight of the entire press turned on the case so soon. It would put Scotland Yard on its mettle, and detective forces are apt to strain matters somewhat when their credit is publicly involved.
That evening I was walking up and down the terrace smoking a cigar with no very comfortable feelings, when I caught sight of the gleam of a white dress in the shadow of the battlements some way off. I guessed at once who it was. Esther Lane was watching me.
Why was she doing so? Was it possible that some suspicion of the truth had entered her brain? It dawned on me that, creature of instinct as she was, she might have arrived at the truth by the clear light of intuition.
I went swiftly towards her.
There was no time for her to evade me, but she shrank back into the shadow as I approached her.
“Why are you watching me?” I said as gently as I could, putting out my hands nervously.
She shrank back, thrusting me from her.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.”
Her voice was low, tense with a latent hysteria, which must have caused her an immense effort to control.
“Why are you watching me?” I asked again.