“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“My head feels queer. Inside.”
“I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here. It’s quite raw.”
It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his hasty sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of luster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued, clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy lids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of Cressey’s inquiry.
“May I?” he said.
“Cut my hair?” she asked. “Oh, no!”
“Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won’t show. There’s so much of it.”
“Please,” she answered, yielding.
He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings. Completed, the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool and comforting to the hot throb of the wound.
“Our doctor went back on the train, worse luck!” he said.