that this girl was not in any
man's employ was established by the manner in which the young man on the
front seat spoke to her, as he now did, plainly heard by King. Though
all he said was some laughing, more or less witty thing about this being
the nineteenth time, by actual count since breakfast, that a question of
roads and routes had arisen, he spoke as to an equal in social status,
and also--this was plainer yet--as to one on whom he had a more than
ordinary claim. And King listened for her answer--surely he would know
her voice if she spoke? One may distrust the evidence of one's eyes when
it comes to a matter of identity, but one's ears are not to be deceived.

But King's ears, stretched though they might be, metaphorically
speaking, like those of a mule, to catch the sound of that voice, caught
nothing. She replied to the young man on the front seat only by a nod
and a smile. Then, as the chauffeur began to fold up his road map,
thanking Burns for his careful directions, and both cars were on the
point of starting, the object of King's heart-arresting scrutiny looked
at him once again. Her straight gaze, out of such eyes as he had never
seen but on those two occasions, met his without flinching--a long,
steady, level look, which lasted until, under Burns's impatient hand,
the smaller car got under motion and began to move. Even then, though
she had to turn her head a little, she let him hold her gaze--as, of
course, he was nothing loath to do, being intensely and increasingly
stirred by the encounter with its baffling hint of mystery. Indeed, she
let him hold that gaze until it was not possible for her longer to
maintain her share of the exchange without twisting about in the car. As
for King, he did not scruple to twist, as far as his back would let him,
until he had lost those eyes from his view.

CHAPTER IX

JORDAN IS A MAN

When King turned back again to face the front his heart was thumping
prodigiously. Almost he was certain it had been Anne Linton; yet the
explanation--if there were one--was not to be imagined. And if it had
been Anne Linton, why should she have refused to know him? There could
have been little difficulty for her in identifying him, even though she
had seen him last lying flat on his back on a hospital bed. And if there
had been a chance of her not knowing him--there was Red Pepper.

It was Anne. It could not be Anne. Between these two convictions King's
head was whirling. W