"No, but's getting near dinner time. Good-by."
"Wait. Take this box of candy with you."
Solomon staggered. "The whole box?"
"Certainly."
"Gee!"
He slid over the rail with the candy under his arm.
When he disappeared, Gertrude went back to her stateroom, closed the door, though quite alone in the car, and re-read her note.
"I have no right to keep this after you leave; perhaps I had no right to keep it at all. But in returning it to you I surely may thank you for the impulse that made you throw it over me the morning I lay asleep behind the Spider dike."
It was he, then, lying in the rain, ill then, perhaps—nursed by the nondescript cub that had just left her.
The Newmarket lay across the berth—a long, graceful garment. She had always liked the coat, and her eye fell now upon it critically, wondering what he thought of the garment upon making so unexpected an acquaintance with her intimate belongings. Near the bottom of the lining she saw a mud stain on the silk and the pretty fawn melton was spotted with rain. She folded it up before the horseback party returned and put it away, stained and spotted, at the bottom of her trunk.