“Are you offering those facts as an excuse for dishonesty?” asked Trent drily.
Sara smiled.
“Yes, I believe I am,” she acknowledged.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Like nine-tenths of your sex, you are fiercely Tory in theory and a rank socialist in practice,” he grumbled.
“Well, I'm not sure that that isn't a very good working basis to go on,” she retorted.
As they stood in the porch at Sunnyside, she made yet one more effort to smooth matters over for the evil-doer, but Trent's face still showed unrelenting in the light that streamed out through the open doorway.
“Ask me something else,” he said. “I would do anything to please you, Sara, except”—with a sudden tense decision—“except interfere with the course of justice. Let every man pay the penalty for his own sin.”
“That's a hard creed,” objected Sara.
“Hard?” He shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps it is. But”—grimly—“it's the only creed I believe in. Good-night”—he held out his hand abruptly. “I'm sorry I can't do as you ask about Jim Brady.”