Jack Sainsbury was silent. It was not the first time that that vague and terrible suggestion had crossed his mind, yet he had never uttered a word to her regarding his suspicions.
“Jerome committed suicide,” was his quiet, thoughtful reply.
“That’s what the doctors said. But do you think he really did?” queried the girl.
Jack shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.
“Ah! I see! You yourself are not quite convinced!” she said, looking him straight in the face.
“Well, Elise,” he said after a brief silence, and with a forced laugh, “I really don’t think I should worry. I can surely take care of myself. Perhaps you would like me to carry a revolver? I’ll do so, if it will content you.”
“You can’t be too careful, dear,” she said earnestly, laying her slim fingers upon his arm. “Remember that they are the spies of the most barbarous race on earth and, in order to gain their ends, they’ll stick at nothing.”
“Not even at killing your humble and most devoted servant—eh?” laughed Jack. “Well, if it will relieve your mind I’ll carry a pistol. I have an automatic Browning at home—a bit rusty, I fear.”
“Then carry it with you always, dear.—I—” But she hesitated in her eagerness, and did not conclude her sentence.
In a second he realised that she had been on the point of speaking, of telling him something. Yet she had broken off just in time. That fact puzzled him considerably.