The stranger was a man of breeding, and a man of the world to boot—but Jard’s words threw him off his mental balance into a spiritual and mental fog, and left him there. Again he sent a searching glance into the corners of the room and even behind the stove in quest of Joe. He didn’t move anything but his eyes. He didn’t say a word. His baffled glance returned to the young woman. Again his eyes met hers, again she smiled faintly, and now she blushed. She was moving toward him; and this she continued to do until she was within two feet of him. She extended a hand, which he took and held, acting by instinct rather than by reason. She lowered her glance.
“I thank you—very, very much,” she said somewhat breathlessly. “It was very—kind of you—and brave.”
“I—don’t mention it, but——”
“She’s Joe,” said Miss Hassock, suddenly enlightened.
“The one you drug out of bed,” said Jard.
“Josephine,” whispered the young woman, bowing her head yet lower and gently attempting to withdraw her hand.
Vane saw it. It dawned on him. The blood crawled up beyond his neck again and fed his brain, and the fog melted away.
“Ah!—of course,” he said. “It was you. I am glad.”
He bowed and gently released her hand. She murmured a few more words of gratitude, then slipped away.
“Why wouldn’t she stop to dinner?” asked Jard of his sister. “I asked her to often enough and hearty enough; an’ even if I hadn’t, I guess she knows she’s always welcome here.”