Joan's keen-wrought perception registered his covert, scarcely
veiled implication. He was studying her.

"Oh, poor uncle. He'll never, never get so much."

"Sure he will," replied Kells, bluntly.

Then he helped her out of the saddle. She was stiff and awkward, and
she let herself slide. Kells handled her gently and like a
gentleman, and for Joan the first agonizing moment of her ordeal was
past. Her intuition had guided her correctly. Kells might have been
and probably was the most depraved of outcast men; but the presence
of a girl like her, however it affected him, must also have brought
up associations of a time when by family and breeding and habit he
had been infinitely different. His action here, just like the
ruffian Bill's, was instinctive, beyond his control. Just this
slight thing, this frail link that joined Kells to his past and
better life, immeasurably inspirited Joan and outlined the difficult
game she had to play.

"You're a very gallant robber," she said.

He appeared not to hear that or to note it; he was eying her up and
down; and he moved closer, perhaps to estimate her height compared
to his own.

"I didn't know you were so tall. You're above my shoulder."

"Yes, I'm very lanky."