“Who touched me?”
She saw him recoil. It was so dark now that his face showed as a pale surface; she could not see his eyes.
“Martin Valliant.”
His voice was awed, humble.
“Do not be angry with me. I will go away if you wish it. I heard you cry out—and——”
She guessed in an instant that he had overheard everything; that touch of his hand upon hers had been like the mute, tentative touch of a dog’s cold muzzle. Her flash of anger melted away.
“It is you? How long——?”
“I was there—behind the rest-house. I had run up, hearing you cry out. I think it was God Who made me listen.”
“Ah, God is a great listener!”
She was quivering with bitter emotion.