The next time we saw her she was standing by the gangplank of the steamer at Brindisi.
"Aren't you going on with us?" I hailed her.
"No, Mr. Nash. I'm leaving you in competent hands. Good lord, boy, you can't dodge us. We've got a system—well, the late well-known Czar might have been proud to own it. Be good, and give up before you get hurt."
"That goes for your people, too," I replied a trifle grimly, for I was growing tired of threats.
She waved her hand impatiently, and stepped over to my side. Hugh and the others already were passing up the gangplank.
"Say, boy, I don't want you to get hurt. Neither does Sandra. If anything goes wrong, watch your step. We'll do what we can, but—"
She pivotted on her heel and melted into the crowd. I climbed the gangplank with my chin on my shoulder, and was met with a shower of joshes by Hugh and Nikka.
"Doin' a little missionary work?" inquired Hugh.
"Do you flatter yourself you're aroused the lady's disinterested affection?" asked Nikka.
"No, to both of you," I retorted. "But she—what's the words the novelists use?—oh, yes, she intrigues me."