What is that man doing here?
The idea of his presence fills me with all manner of vague apprehensions.

I cannot rid myself of the absurd notion that the lavender glove I saw lying in Goodge's parlour had been left there by the Captain.

I know the idea _is_ an absurd one, and I tell myself again and again that Paget _cannot_ have any inkling of my business here, and therefore _cannot_ attempt to forestall me or steal my hard-won information.

But often as I reiterate this--in that silent argument which a man is always elaborating in his own mind--I am still tormented by a nervous apprehension of treachery from that man.

I suppose the boundary line between influenza and idiocy is a very narrow one.