the invalid upstairs, was searching her heart for answers to the same questions. Why had she sought to shield this stranger? Why had she evaded Doctor Stetson's inquiries and deliberately tried to mislead him into thinking she and Stanley Heath were friends? What had prompted the deception? The man was nothing to her. Of his past she had not the slightest knowledge, indeed he might be the greatest villain in the world. In fact, circumstances proclaimed him a thief. Nevertheless, she did not, could not, believe it. There was something too fine in his face; his eyes. [73] [73] True, he had made no attempt either to defend himself or to explain away the suspicions he must have known would arise in her mind. On the contrary, with a devil-may-care audacity that fascinated her, he actually appeared to have tried to deepen in her mind the impression of his guilt. Still she refused to believe. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence she clung to her unreasoning faith in him. Suppose he had stolen the gems and fled with them from Long Island? Suppose he had lost his bearings in the fog; tossed aimlessly on the sea for a day and a night; and then run aground at her doorstep? It was possible, quite possible, even probable. Yet was it? Not for a man like Stanley Heath. Marcia stubbornly insisted. So deep was the conviction, she shrank lest he should feel called upon to justify or defend himself. Far from demanding explanations, she resolved she would give him no chance to make them. Therefore, when his meal was ready and every last inviting touch had been given the tray, she said casually to Sylvia: "Suppose you take it up, dear?" "I?" [74] [74]
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