"Not altogether," I admitted. "I am beginning to wonder if those fellows were square, if they gave me the straight story. Coombs' words would seem to indicate that he knows I 'm a fraud. Perhaps he did n't mean that, but it sounded so. Why should they tell that rough-neck their plans, and send him down here? I 'll find out what he knows, and how he knows it, before another ten hours. If he 's here to spy on us I 'll make him earn his money."
She did not look around.
"Are—are you just beginning to doubt what those men told you?"
"Doubt!" in surprise. "No; I don't know that I do. But I don't like to be mistrusted and watched. Why? Do you think they are double-crossing us?"
"I 've—I 've taken your word," she said quickly. "But it has never seemed quite right to me. I—I hardly know why I consented to come, only I was so miserable, anything seemed better than the life I was leading."
"You saw all the papers," I interposed, "and they bear out every statement."
"Yes, but could they not be forged? Why should any honest lawyer advise a client to undertake such a fraud?"
"Why, really I do not know," I returned, looking at her in astonishment. "Of course it does seem queer, but the case is a peculiar one, and, perhaps, can be solved in no strictly legal way. If you felt so about it, why did you not say so before?"
"Don't get angry—please. I hardly think I was myself then. It was just an impulse I could not resist to get away from the past. I was desperate enough then for anything. I don't think I cared whether it was right or wrong. But on the train I lay awake and thought it all over, and—and I would have gone back then if I could. I am sorry, so sorry, but I am thoroughly ashamed of myself—here, as I am."
"You mean, pretending to be my wife?"