Lancelot knows this look. It's the same look he saw on Nancy when he told her, and it's beginning to both tire and frustrate him internally. He considers her a moment, offers a small smile finally.

"You know," he says softly, "I'm beginning to think a lot of people have a very different idea of what my job should be than I do. You've no reason to be scared of me, Abigail, no more than you need to be afraid of a Police Officer if you haven't just broken a law."

He releases her, shifts his grip on his lone bag as he thinks.

"Will you have coffee with me? I'll pay, and you can say as little or as much as you like. I'd just rather listen to you than just rumours, I'm sure you know there's plenty of those."

His lips quirk up into something more wry, something knowing. After all, Abigail looking this way tells him she's probably thinking of Sylvia. Thinking of how he reports to her. Yet Lancelot deals in facts, not gossip, and he'd rather keep it that way.