"It was not that you were going to do to me before."
"I love you," he muttered excusingly.
She shook her head.
"You know too little of me; you have too many doubt and fears," she
said. "You do not love me, you do not even trust me."
"I love you all the same," he asserted positively and roughly. "I
loved you--it was when I tied your hands to the chair that night
and you looked at me with such contempt, and asked me if I felt
proud. That stung, that stung. I loved you then."
"You see," she said sadly, "you do not even pretend to trust me. I
don't know why you should. Why are you here? Why are you disguised
with all that growth of hair? There is something you are preparing,
planning. I know it. I feel it. What is it?"
"I told you once before," he answered, "that the end of this will
be Deede Dawson's death or mine. That's what I'm preparing."
"He is very cunning, very clever," she said. "Do you think he
suspects you?"
"He suspects every one always," answered Dunn. "I've been trying
to get proof to act on. I haven't succeeded. Not yet. Nothing
definite. If I can't, I shall act without. That's all."
"If I told him even half of what you just said," she said, looking
at him. "What would happen?"
"You see, I trust you," he answered bitterly.
She shook her head, but her eyes were soft and tender as she said:
"It wasn't trust in me made you say all that, it was because you
didn't care what happened after.
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