He found her crouched in a tiny hollow close to a narrow footpath that ran through the wood. She was on her knees, but she turned a deathly face up to him as he reached her. She was sobbing like a child.
"They are great iron teeth," she gasped, "fastened in my hand. Can you open them?"
"Don't move!" he ordered, as he dropped down beside her.
It was a poacher's trap, fortunately of a species with which he was acquainted. Her hand was fairly gripped between the iron jaws. He wondered with a set face if those cruel teeth had met in her delicate flesh.
She screamed as he forced it open, and fell back shuddering, half-fainting, while he lifted her torn hand and examined it in the failing light.
It was bleeding freely, but not violently, and he saw with relief that the larger veins had escaped. He wrapped his handkerchief round it, and spoke:
"Come!" he said. "My house is close by. It had better be bathed at once."
"Yes," she assented shakily.
"Don't cry!" he said, with blunt kindliness.
"I can't help it," whispered Cynthia.