In the sinuous trail of
his life might lie arson, robbery, murder, but he still held to
that dynamic spark of self-respect that is akin to the divine.
Nor was it possible to believe that those unblinking gray eyes,
with the capability of a latent sadness of despair in them,
expressed a soul entirely without nobility. He had a certain
gallant ease, a certain attractive candor, that did not consist
with villainy unadulterated.
It was characteristic even of her impulsiveness that Helen
Messiter curbed the swift condemnation that leaped to her lips
when she knew that the man sitting beside her was the notorious
bandit of the Shoshone fastnesses. She was not in the least
afraid. A sure instinct told her he was not the kind of a man of
whom a woman need have fear so long as her own anchor held fast.
In good time she meant to let him have her unvarnished opinion of
him, but she did not mean it to be an unconsidered one. Wherefore
she drove the machine forward toward the camelbacked peak he had
indicated, her eyes straight before her, a frown corrugating her
forehead.
For him, having made his dramatic announcement, he seemed content
for the present with silence. He leaned back in the car and
appreciated her with a coolness that just missed impudence.
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