“Brute!” she murmured in an odd, choked tone.
“Sounds so, doesn't it? But I wanted that picture. Afterwards came our terrible journey back to the Coast, when I carried the poor old chap on my back day by day, and stood over him at night potting those black beasts when they crept up too close—for they were on our track all the time. I wouldn't tell you the whole story of those days, Miss Wendermott for it would keep you awake at night; but I've a fancy for telling you this. I'd like you to believe it, for it's gospel truth. I didn't leave him until I felt absolutely and actually certain that he couldn't live an hour. He was passing into unconsciousness, and a crowd of those natives were close upon our heels. So I left him and took the picture with me—and I think since then that it has meant almost as much to me as ever it had been to him.”
“That,” she remarked, “sounds a little far-fetched—not to say impossible.”
“Some day,” he answered boldly, “I shall speak to you of this again, and I shall try to convince you that it is truth!”
He could not see her face, but he knew very well in some occult manner that she had parted with some at least of her usual composure. As a matter of fact she was nervous and ill-at-ease.
“You have not yet told me,” she said abruptly, “what you imagine can be this girl's reasons for remaining unknown.”
“I can only guess them,” he said gravely; “I can only suppose that she is ashamed of her father and declines to meet any one connected with him. It is very wrong and very narrow of her. If I could talk to her for ten minutes and tell her how the poor old chap used to dream about her and kiss her picture, I can't think but she'd be sorry.”
“Try and think,” she said, looking still away from him, “that she must have another reason. You say that you liked her picture! Try and be generous in your thoughts of her for its sake.”
“I will try,” he answered, “especially—”
“Yes?”