She was terrified and of course convinced, for she was easy of conviction, believing always the last person to whom she spoke. She sat down on one of the boxes that furnished that cheerless refuge of Mr. Butler’s.
“Then what’s to become of Ned?” she cried. “Oh, I had hoped that we had found a way out at last.”
He raised himself on his elbow on the camp-bed they had fitted up for him.
“Be easy now,” he bade her impatiently. “They can’t do anything to Ned until they find him guilty; and how are they going to find him guilty when he’s innocent?”
“Yes; but the appearances!”
“Fiddlesticks!” he answered her—and the expression chosen was a mere concession to her sex, and not at all what Mr. Butler intended. “Appearances can’t establish guilt. Do be sensible, and remember that they will have to prove that he killed Samoval. And you can’t prove a thing to be what it isn’t. You can’t!”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain sure,” he replied with emphasis.
“Do you know that I shall have to give evidence before the court?” she announced resentfully.
It was an announcement that gave him pause. Thoughtfully he stroked his abominable tuft of red beard. Then he dismissed the matter with a shrug and a smile.