She took the prints and studied
them, though her hand trembled. Hers was a remarkable mind. It
took only seconds to see what others would have seen only in
minutes. But it was not the reasoning faculty that was aroused by
what she saw. It sank deep into her heart.
She flung the papers down.
"I don't believe it!" she defied. "There is some mistake. No--it
cannot be true!"
It was a noble exhibition of faith. I think I have never seen any
instant more tense than that in Kennedy's laboratory. There stood
the beautiful girl declaring her faith in her lover, rejecting
even the implication that it might have been he who had taken the
dagger, perhaps murdered her father to insure the possession of
her father's share of the treasure as well as the possession of
herself.
Kennedy did not try to combat it. Instead he treated her very
intuitions with respect. In him there was room for both fact and
feeling.
"Senorita," he said finally, in a voice that was deep and
thrilling with feeling, "have I ever been other than a friend to
you? Have I ever given you cause to suspect even one little motive
of mine?"
She faced him, and they looked into each other's eyes an instant.
But it was long enough for the man to understand the woman and she
to understand him.
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