“Yes. But how can she be sure of that. You heard what she just said about Forrester? Yes? Well, consider and weigh it carefully. Do you suppose that she referred to him only?”
Webster opened his eyes widely, and whistled.
“You mean to say that she does not altogether trust you. Why, I thought you had become pals.”
“I’m inclined to think,” said Kenyon, “that she, personally, would place confidence in me. But she has not, I know, herself, only, to think of. She seems to fear for others.”
“But whom?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the mysterious ‘he’ whom I have heard referred to now and then. But whatever it is, the girl fears treachery. And I suppose she has good cause to fear it. You heard her say that her reason refuses to accept appearances. I have only the appearance of aiding her, as yet. Another man has befriended her, but she has cause to suspect him, for all that. What assurance has she that it will be different in my case? She even doubts the faith of the conspirators to each other—as we have been inclined to do. How does she know but what I, too, in spite of all that she has lately learned, may be one of them, and willing, now, to throw them all overboard for a personal advantage. She told me once to-night that she was circumstanced strangely, and without a friend who could help her. So you can’t blame her for withholding her confidence; suspicion is her only defence.”
“But she trusts herself in your hands.”
“Did she not trust herself in the hands of the others? The girl has courage and is not afraid to venture anything that promises results.”
Webster bit the end off a cigar and stooped into the shelter of the cabin to light it. He drew at it steadily for a moment after he arose, then said:
“I think you’ve got the right idea, old chap. You’ve got to work for her good opinion. But in spite of all that you might say to the contrary, I rather fancy you’ve got a fair sort of a start. In other words, she’d rather see you win than not.”