Roger was speechless with wrath at this torrent of what he thought was
abuse, failing to distinguish between the general and the specific. It
was only by an effort of will that he restrained himself from laying
violent hands on this threadbare creature with the eloquent tongue, who,
it appeared to him, was deliberately insulting his sister. But Judith
herself felt no rancour. Indeed she felt the magnetism of the reporter
more strongly with each word, and it never occurred to impugn the
sincerity of his outburst--nor its justice. Her face struggled painfully
in an effort to be cold and impassive as she barely whispered again her
refusal to speak.

Good studied her for a moment. Then he smiled, quite cheerfully. All his
hot tensity vanished suddenly.

"I think I understand," he said quietly. "It isn't that you won't talk
to me--but you can't. You can't tell me what you think about these
things--because you haven't thought about them. But you're going to,
Miss Wynrod, you're going to. Some day I shall come back, and then you
will talk to me. Perhaps you will even ask me to come back."

Roger laughed at that, but Judith was silent. She had a curious and not
at all pleasant sense that this curious, contradictory, talkative
stranger, with his grotesque form and clothes, and bad manners, not to
say impudence, knew her better than she knew herself. He was perfectly
right. She tried to tell herself that her refusal to talk to him was
dictated by a finely conscious dignity. But she knew very well that such
was not the case. He had indeed spoken truly when he said that she could
not talk because she had not thought. She had not. And she was not at
all incredulous at his prophecy that she might one day call him back.
She would think more about these matters--she had begun, perforce but
none the less certainly, to think about them already.

The reporter, still studying her quizzically, and so intently as to make
her consciously uncomfortable, rose slowly.

"I'm sorry, Miss Wynrod. I've had a wasted trip--and yet I haven't.
You're beginning to think. Some day you will talk. Perhaps I shall be
present. I am glad we have become friends--you, too, Mr. Wynrod. Good
morning."

In spite of his awkwardness, his movements were rapid. It seemed almost
like a fairy disappearance, so quickly was he out of sight behind the
hedge. Only his dilapidated straw hat could be seen bobbing rhythmically
out of view.

"Well, of all cranks," laughe