“Oh, of course not; and to tell you the honest truth, I am also a bit that way. It’s the suspense that does it.” There was a short pause, during which Kenyon heard the rustling of papers; then Forrester proceeded: “I don’t fear Hong Yo in the least; and as for Farbush, well, you know how I classed him long ago. It’s the other--that close mouthed, swift-eyed Kenyon that I really dread.” “And I,” echoed Anna. “He is so secretive, he seems to know so much that we thought no one knew; and he is so cold and observing; he appears to be weighing one’s thoughts, continually, and casting about for some means of profiting by the result.” “It must have been some sort of an evil influence that prompted me to encourage the old man in his desire to have this same fellow,” said Forrester, and there was a note of complaint in his voice that made Kenyon smile. “I never could understand what made you do it,” said the girl. “I thought it for the best. Like fools, Farbush and Hong began making threats as to what they would do if young Philip Austin succeeded to the business. The old man became frightened. One day he told me that he intended to send for a man who he knew could be trusted to protect Philip.” “And that man was Kenyon.” “Yes. God knows where old Stephen had ever heard of him. And I had to encourage this notion, or perhaps have him invoke the law.” “The last would never have done,” said the girl, hastily. “Of course not. I saw at once that the only safe thing to do was to find the man, somehow, and arrange matters with him, if he was willing to make a deal.” “And the result of your efforts was those three foolish persons who wandered into the net like so many stupid flies.” Kenyon heard a fist strike a table impatiently; then Forrester cried: “I’ll never forgive myself for that blunder! It was caused by over-anxiety. I desired to gain time.” “But to write four letters; to direct them to different places! Was that not taking a desperate chance?” “Something had to be done. I could think of nothing better. Old Stephen did not know where Kenyon was at that time, but he was trying to trace him. I found, in his desk, a list of four places where the person sought _had_ been, and then conceived the plan of writing a letter to each of these places, in the hope that one or the other of them would reach him in some way. I named the house in Selden’s Square as the place--Farbush taking it blindly at my request--and the night upon which old Stephen died as the time of meeting. “All this was meant to save time. The idea was sound, and the whole trouble resulted from the old man’s not knowing Kenyon’s first name. So I was forced to address the letters simply to _Mr._ Kenyon. And the cursed post-office delivered three of them to strangers.” “Griscom! Griscom! It was not all ill-luck. You were foolish, indiscreet.” “But I fancied the man who wrote me from Butte was the right person.”