“I know. I recognized her,” said she evenly.
“And you believe she was coming out here to meet me,—isn't that so?”
She drew herself up. “I shall have to say good night, Mr. Percival. No! It is not necessary for you to walk home with me.”
He placed himself in front of her. “Would you mind answering my question?”
“Yes,” she flashed, “I think she was coming out here to meet you. Permit me to pass, please.”
He stood aside. “Good night, Miss Clinton.”
He watched her until the door of her cabin swung open,—and he smiled as she stood revealed for an instant in the square of light, for she had obeyed the impulse to glance over her shoulder.
She was angry, hurt, disgusted as she slammed the door behind her.
“Where have you been?” cried out an accusing voice, and Ruth's gaze fell upon the figure in one of the deck chairs beside the fire. “I have been waiting for you for—”
“How long have you been here?” cried the girl, stock-still and staring.