rom the disabled craft in the tiny rowboat
that was now on the beach. More than this she did not know, yet
something jogged her memory every now and then--something that would
not shape itself definitely. Indeed, she had been too much engrossed
in the serious condition of her companion and the work necessary to
make the camp, to spend any thought on unimportant speculations.

But now, as she listened to the youth's respectful tones, it suddenly
came back to her. She looked at him with awe-struck eyes.

"Oh, now I know! You are the new chauffeur; 'queer name, Hand!' Yes,
I remember--I remember."

"What you say is true, Mademoiselle."

He stood before her, a stubbornly submissive look on his face, as a
servant might stand before his betrayed master. It was as if he had
been waiting for that moment, waiting for her anger to fall on him.
But Agatha was speechless at her growing wonder at the trick fate had
played them. Her steady gaze, serious and earnest now, without a hint
of the laughter that usually came so easily, dwelt on the young man's
eyes for a moment, then she turned away as if she were giving up a
puzzling question. She looked at James, whose stubbly-bearded face was
now quiet against its green pillow, as if seeking a solution there; but
she had to fall back, at last, on the youth.

"Do you know who this man is?" she asked irrelevantly.

"No, Mademoiselle. He was picked up in New York harbor, the night we
weighed anchor. I have not seen him since until to-day."

"'The night we weighed anchor!' What night was that?"

"Last Monday, Mademoiselle; at about six bells."

"And what day is to-day?"

"Saturday, Mademoiselle; and past four bells now."

"Monday--Saturday!" Agatha looked abstractedly down on Jimmy asleep,
while upon her mind crowded the memories of that week. This man who
had dragged her and her rescuer from the water, who had made fire and a
bed for them, who had got milk for their sustenance, had been almost
the last person her conscious eyes had seen in that half-hour of terror
on the hillside. Her next memory, after an untold interval, was the
rocking of the ship, an old woman who treated her obsequiously, a man
who was her servile attendant and yet her jailer--but then, suddenly,
as she knelt there, mind and body refused their service. She crumpled
down on the soft sand, burying her head in her arms.

Hand came nearer and bent awkwardly over her, as if to coax her
confidenc