“I thought as much⁠—first I thought it was that long-legged, pompous ass, Race, but I suppose it’s the young hero who fished you out of the falls that night. Women have no taste. Neither of those two have half the brains that I have. I’m such an easy person to underestimate.”

I think he was right about that. Although I knew well enough the kind of man he was and must be, I could not bring myself to realize it. He had tried to kill me on more than one occasion, he had actually killed another woman, and he was responsible for endless other deeds of which I knew nothing, and yet I was quite unable to bring myself into the frame of mind for appreciating his deeds as they deserved. I could not think of him as other than our amusing, genial travelling companion. I could not even feel frightened of him⁠—and yet I knew he was capable of having me murdered in cold blood if it struck him as necessary. The only parallel I can think of is the case of Stevenson’s Long John Silver. He must have been much the same kind of man.