The girl said: "I - I feel rather sick."

Mr. Amberley raised one eyebrow. "I'm not surprised," he said politely.

She sat down on the running-board of the car and put her head down on her knees. Mr. Amberley stood wiping his fingers on his handkerchief and frowning at her. Presently she sat up. "I'm all right now. What are you going to do?"

"Inform the police."

She looked up at him squarely. "About me?"

"Probably."

Her hands kneaded themselves together. She said bitterly: "If you think I did this why did you give me back my gun? I might easily shoot you too."

"I don't think it. But I should very much like to know what you were doing here at this hour and why you carry a gun."

She was silent. He said, after a moment's pause: "Not exactly communicative, are you?"

"Why should I be? You're not a policeman."

"Just as well for you I'm not. You'd better burn that handkerchief." He turned away towards his own car.

She got up, surprised and uncertain. "Are you - are you letting me go?" she asked, staring after him.

He opened the door of the Bentley. "I'm not a policeman," he reminded her over his shoulder.

"But - but why?" she persisted.

He got into his car and slammed the door. "If you did it," he informed her pleasantly, "you're such a damned little fool the police will precious soon find you out for themselves. Good night."

The car moved forward, was backed again a few feet, straightened, and driven away down the lane the way it had come.

The girl was left standing irresolutely beside the Austin. She watched the Bentley's tail-lamp disappear round the bend in the road and blinked rather dazedly.

She felt in her pocket for her torch and drew it out. Switching it on she turned once more to the car.