“Yes,” returned Kennedy.  “I remember.  But had you no other reason?  Did you, down in your heart, think them really fairy tales?”

She shuddered.  “Perhaps not,” she murmured.  “But I have heard enough of you detectives to know that you do not think a woman’s fears exactly evidence.”

“Still they might lead to evidence,” suggested Kennedy.

She looked at him, more startled than ever, for already he had given her a slight exhibition of his powers.

“Mr. Kennedy,” she exclaimed, “I am positively afraid of you, afraid that every little thing I do may lead to something I don’t intend.”

There was a frankness about the remark that would have been flattering from a man, but from her excited sympathy.

“No,” she went on, “I have nothing tangible—­only my feelings.  I fear I must admit that my father had enemies, though who they are I cannot tell you.  No, it is all in my heart—­not in my head.  There are those whom I dislike—­and there are those whom I like and trust.  You may call me foolish, but I cannot help trusting—­ Mr. Lockwood.”

She had not meant to say his name, and Kennedy and I looked at her in surprise.

“You see?” she continued.  “Every time I talk I say something, convey some impression that is the opposite of what I wish.  Oh—­ what shall I do?  Have I no one to trust?”

She was crying.

“You may trust me, Senorita,” said Kennedy, in a low tone, pausing before her.  “At least I have no other interest than finding the truth and helping you.  There—­there.  We have had enough to-day.  I cannot ask you to try to forget what has happened.  That would be impossible.  But I can ask you, Senorita, to have faith—­faith that it will all turn out better, if you will only trust me.  When you feel stronger—­then come to me.  Tell me your fears—­or not—­ whichever does you the most good.  Only keep your mind from brooding.  Face it all as you know your father would have you do.”

Kennedy’s words were soothing.  He seemed to know that tears were the safety-valve she needed.

“Mr. Jameson will see that you get home safely in a taxicab,” he continued.  “You can trust him as you would myself.”

I can imagine circumstances under which I would have enjoyed escorting Inez to her home, but today was not one of the times.  Yet she seemed so helpless, so grateful for everything we did for her that I did not need even the pressure of her little hand as she hurried into the apartment from the car with a hasty word of thanks.

“You will tell Mr. Kennedy—­you will both be—­so careful?” she hesitated before leaving me.

I assured her that we would, wondering what she might fear for us, as I drove away again.  There did not happen to be any of the newspaper men about at the time, and I did not stop.

Back in the laboratory, I found Kennedy arranging something under the rug at the door as I came up the hall.