“They won’t get a chance to use them on me.”
“I don’t know what you’ll think of me––” He heard the troubled note in her voice.
“What do you mean?”
She began to unbutton her jacket. Throwing back the revers she felt inside around her waist, unfastened after a moment and drew forth a leathern strap. She laid it in de Spain’s hands. “This is yours,” she said in a whisper.
He felt it questioningly, hurriedly, then with amazement. “Not a cartridge-belt!” he exclaimed.
“It’s your own.”
“Where––?” She made no answer. “Where did you get it, Nan?” he whispered hurriedly.
“Where you left it.”
“How?” She was silent. “When?”