CHAPTER XI.
"THORNTON LYNE IS DEAD." For a time neither spoke.

Tarling walked slowly forward, pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, never once taking his eyes off the girl.
Odette Rider! The woman for whom the police of England were searching, against whom a warrant had been issued on a charge of wilful murder--and here, in a little country hospital.

For a moment, and a moment only, Tarling was in doubt.

Had he been standing outside the case and watching it as a disinterested spectator, or had this girl never come so closely into his life, bringing a new and a disturbing influence so that the very balance of his judgment was upset, he would have said that she was in hiding and had chosen this hospital for a safe retreat.

The very name under which she was passing was fictitious--a suspicious circumstance in itself.
The girl's eyes did not leave his.