I watched him narrowly to see how he would take it. The dazed expression deepened on his face.
“You are apparently sane,” he said, very wearily. “You seem to be sober.”
“I am both,” I said.
There was a pause.
“It’s no use for me,” he began, evidently collecting his thoughts with a strong effort, “to say your charge is preposterous. I don’t suppose mere denial would convince you. I can only say, instead, that the charge is too wild to be replied to except in one way, which is this. Employ for a moment your own standard of right and wrong. I know your love story, and you know mine. Miss Eversleigh, my cousin, is to me what Miss Goodwin is to you—true as steel. My loyalty and my friendship for you are the same as your loyalty and your friendship for me.”
“Well?”
“Well, if I have spent an hour with Miss Goodwin, you have spent more than an hour with my cousin. What right have you to suspect me more than I have to suspect you? Judge me by your own standard.”
“I do,” I said, “and I find myself still suspecting you.”
He stared.
“I don’t understand you.”