But even with its aid, his progress toward the boat necessarily consumed a tedious time. It was impossible to favour the injured foot to any great extent. Between occasional halts for rest, Whitaker hobbled with grim determination, suffering exquisitely but privately. The girl considerately schooled her pace to his, subjecting him to covert scrutiny when, as they moved on, his injury interested him exclusively.
He made little or no attempt to converse while in motion; a spirit of bravado alone, indeed, would have enabled him to pay attention to anything aside from the problem of the next step; and bravado was a stranger to his cosmos then, if ever. So she had plenty of opportunity to make up her mind about him.
If her eyes were a reliable index, she found him at least interesting. At times their expression was enigmatic beyond any rending. Again they seemed openly perplexed. At all times they were warily regardful.
Once she sighed quietly with a passing look of sadness of which he was wholly unaware....
"Odd—about that fellow," he observed during a halt. "I was sure I knew him, both times—last night as well as to-day."
"Last night?" she queried with patent interest.
"Oh, yes: I meant to tell you. He was prowling round the bungalow—Ember's, I mean—when I first saw him. I chased him off, lost him in the woods, and later picked him up again just at the edge of your grounds. That's why I thought it funny that he should be over here this morning, shadowing you—as they say in detective stories."
"No wonder!" she commented sympathetically.
"And the oddest thing of all was that I should be so sure he was Drummond—until I saw—"
"Drummond!"