Solomon considers her statement, mulls over the idea that Olinger, that the bigwigs inside the Capitol who want the Hellhounds gone, would have made up something like that. He has always had the impression that these Dogs are fierce in their loyalty to one another, especially the officers with their patches and their decorations all about pride, about position, about the club. And so he nods, slowly.
"It would work," he muses. "If they were able to make your people believe you betrayed them, it would hurt them." His eyes, rather like those of a droopy basset hound, lift again to her face and he laces his long fingers together to rest on the back of the chair. "But to make them believe it, they'd have to have done a lot more than just say it," he muses aloud. The longer they sit here, the less it's Hellhounds and Ghouls and Capitol people - he's picturing this woman's life, this woman's story. He can't help doing that, he's always, always been one to see just what is before him, to focus in on the life and the perspective and to let its vibrations in and through him. It could easily be argued that Solomon is more open minded than is strictly good for him.
"So they had help. And that's where the revenge comes in?" he guesses. Even as all that forms and coalesces in his mind, Solomon is pondering the predicament that this woman is in - Hellhound or not, officer, killer or not, she is pregnant and exiled and very near alone, save for Jo. It strikes him, and it shows in the tilt of his brows, the intent of his watching her.