We know the rest—that you've known about this all along."
The man's bitterness was a trap closing about him. It was bewildering, terrible—it, and his sense of guilt. He was in a corner, hedged in by mounting suspicion.
"Helen, this isn't fair!"
His voice sounded strained. His one hand, uplifted, seemed unconvincing, only a gesture of supplication, a plea for mercy.
Helen detected this, saw his confusion contrasted with the certain strength of Goddard, and color flooded back into her face. The suspicion that had been in her eyes gave way to something else, to actual hostility. This man was also of that group for which she had no charity.
Taylor read that. His heart faltered and the hand sank slowly, but as it went down something rose within him: Pride. He had been dismayed, shaken, frightened, terror-struck by the fact that she suspected him of—Ah, he knew what suspicions his indecision could nourish! And now this other thing surged up, this pride, which would not let him beg. They had snatched at conclusions; he had made his mistake, but they would not give him opportunity to clear himself. She would not believe him innocent of wrong intent, she would not trust him.
"Yes, I will tell you why he is here," he said quietly, "My father sent him here to try to buy this forest."
"And how'd he happen to come?" Goddard advanced closer with his question. "Did you send for him?"
"I did not send for him."
"Sure of that? You had nothing to do with his coming here?"
"I—I had everything to do with it. I told my father
