," stated the girl, whose eyes were dry and burning.

"Sure! That's the stuff," railed Peter bitingly; "whatever you do,
stick to your story."

He grabbed her wrist, and her glance should have softened granite.

"For example," he sniffed; "that neat little cock-and-bull story you
made up about your cruel, brutal husband. Expect me to believe that,
too, eh?"

"Not if you don't care to," said the girl faintly.

Peter knocked away her hand, the hand which seemed always to fumble at
her throat in moments of strain. He pulled down the black kimono and
dragged her under the light, forcing her back against the white cabin.
He looked.

The white, soft curve of her chest was devoid of all marks. It was as
white as that portion of a woman's body is said to be, by the singing
poets, as white as alabaster, and devoid of angry stripes.

Peter seized both limp wrists in one of his hands.

"By God, you _are_ clever!" he scoffed. "Now, Miss Enigma, you spurt
out your story, and the true story, or, by Heaven, I'll call the
skipper! I'll have you put in irons--for murder!"

She hung her head, then flung it back and eyed him with the sullen fire
of a cornered animal.

"You forget I saved your life," she said.

As if they were red hot, Peter dropped her hands, and they fell at her
sides like limp rags.

"I--I----" he stammered, and backed away a step. "Good God!" he
exploded. "Then explain this; explain why you took the clip from my
automatic. Explain why you put up that story of a brutal husband, and
showed me scars on your breast to prove it--then washed them off. And
why--why you killed this man who would have murdered me."

"I will explain what I am able to," she said in a small, tired voice.
"I took the clips from the revolver because--because I didn't want you
to shoot me. I know _their_ methods far better than you seem to; and I
knew I could handle this coolie myself far better than you could; and I
wanted to run no risk of being shot myself in attending to him.

"As for the 'brutal-husband story,' every word of that is the truth.
If you must know, I used rouge for the scars. Since you are so
outspoken, I will pay you back in the same cloth. There are scars on
my body, on my back and my legs."

Her face was as red as a poppy.

"And I killed this man because--well," she snapped, "perhaps because I
hate you."

Had she cut him with a whip, Peter could not have felt more hurt, more
humiliated, more ash