Miss Dinmont sat looking searchingly at the inspector's impassive face. The lights of station lamps moved slowly over and past it as the train slid to a halt. "Eridge! Eridge!" called the porter, clumping down the deserted platform. The unexpectant voice had died into the distance, and the train had gathered itself into motion again before she spoke.
"I wish I could read what you are thinking," she said desperately. "Am I being your fool for the second time in one day?"
"Miss Dinmont, believe me, so far I have never known you do a foolish thing, and I'm willing to take a large bet I never shall."
"That might do for Mrs. Ratcliffe," she said. "But I'll tell you. I think she might keep quiet about a murder, but there would have to be a reason that mattered to herself overwhelmingly. That's all."
He was not sure whether the last two words meant that that was all that she could tell him, or whether it was an indication that pumping was to cease; but she had given him food for thought, and he was quiet until they ran into Victoria. "Where are you living?" he asked. "Not at the hospital?"
"No; I'm staying at my club in Cavendish Square."
He accompanied her there against her wish, and said good night on the doorstep, since she would not be persuaded to dine with him.
"You have some days of holiday yet," he said, with kindly intention. "How are you going to fill them in?"
"In the first place, I'm going to see my aunt. I have come to the conclusion that the evils one knows are less dreadful than the evils one doesn't know."
But the inspector caught the glint of the hall light on her teeth, and went away feeling less a martyr to injustice than he had for some hours past.