“Not altogether, I think,” he said thoughtfully, his dark piercing eyes fixed unwaveringly on her, as though he would read her thoughts. “There is truth in it somewhere. How much? How much has Adèle told you?” He thrust his face even closer towards her. “I know there is a reason for your actions. I am your friend and hers. I am taking a heavy risk to help you whether you appreciate it or not. We are all in the same boat⁠—all suspect. Let us clear the air.”

His voice was low and persuasive, and his hand sought and found hers. She hastily tore hers away from his touch. For once Larry Hughes had overplayed his part. Penelope had got a clue to things that had been dark to her, and some at least of her doubts of the man who sat by her side were resolved.

“Adèle⁠—and you,” she murmured, softly, more to herself than to the man. “I begin to understand.”

“Well, tell me,” he said.