“All right,” he said quietly.
An unaccountable suspicion took possession of her—unaccountable because Walter’s brain was not worth a burnt sulphur match, and any thoughts he might have should be laughed at. But for the moment he had seemed so sane—just like his old self—steady and dignified. He seemed to be warning Richard. And Walter was her brother—pshaw! but an idiot of a brother. Still.... After all, what did she know about this Richard Richard? Not even his name. Clever? Undoubtedly, but the cleverness that has employed itself often before and knows all the answers. Might he not be a clever impostor trying to gull two country women and a half-witted boy?
Appearances were all in his favour; but swindlers were no longer the villainous-looking desperadoes of the old melodrama. Certainly he was different from any man she had ever known—but then she had known only good men.
Then she thought—it came to her in a stunning flash—of the scene on the stern of the Victoria, the two men swaying up and down on that slanting iron deck; and remorse seized her. When Richard came out, she went swiftly towards him and held out her hands. He took them inquiringly.
“Forgive me, my dear,” she smiled up at him, sure that the endearing term would recall their domestic playette at the top of the hill back of Naples.
“For what?”
“For suspecting you of being a villain,” she smiled.
“What made you suspect?”
“Walter must have got on my nerves,” she explained. “You see, I really don’t know anything about you, and you are peculiar, and I had no experience with villains; and so putting nothing and nothing together I was trying to make a total.... Well! What are you puzzling over? We’re even, that’s all.”
“How, pray?”