And then, studying him covertly while she ate, she observed that he was paler than usual; that his lips were straight and stiff, even when he smiled; that he seemed to have little appetite and was restless and jerky.
Warden was suspicious--that was evident.

She had thought, when he had entered her room at the hotel, that his manner was strange and not nearly so hearty as it should have been over finding her.

He had been too matter-of-fact and undemonstrative.
She never had loved Warden; she had not even respected him.

She had plumbed his nature and had found him narrow, selfish--even brutal.

But she had permitted him to make love to her occasionally--mildly, for what doubtful amusement she got out of it, and she had responded merely for the thrill it gave her to have a man pursue her.
When, after supper, Warden called her into his office and closed the door behind her, she had steeled herself for any attack he might make.
She was calm, and unmoved by what she saw in Warden's face.
A lamp glowed on Warden's desk, and he motioned her to a chair that stood beside it, so that when she seated herself the glare of the lamp was on her face.
While she sat there, a little malice in her heart for Warden--because he had dared to suspect her--he moved toward her and without saying a word laid before her the handkerchief he had found.
She took it up deliberately, looked at it, and as deliberately stuck it into her belt.
"It's mine, Gary," she said.
"I found it in a bunk at a Circle L line camp, occupied during the storm by Kane Lawler.