A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his revolver.
“The hoboes,” he whispered under his breath. “But they didn’t rob you,” he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand.
“No. I don’t think so. I ran away.”
“Where was it?”
“On the train.”
Enlightenment burst upon him. “You’re sure—” he began. Then, “Tell me all you can about it.”
“I don’t remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. The door was open. Some one must have come in and struck me. Here.” She put her left hand tenderly to her head.
Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the temple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale.
“Sit still,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”
While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages and gauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neither fear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed the wound very carefully.