For days she had studied him as through microscopic lenses; his guilelessness was real.

It just simply could not be; her ears had deceived her that memorable foggy night in London.

And yet, always in the dark his voice was that of one of the two men who had talked near her cab.

Who was he?
Not a single corner of the veil had he yet lifted, and here it was, the middle of August; and except for the week at Bar Harbor she had been with him day by day, laid she knew not how many traps, over which he had stepped serenely, warily or unconsciously she could not tell which.

It made her heart ache; for, manly and simple as he appeared, honest as he seemed, he was either a rogue or the dupe of one, which was almost as bad.