t and checked himself in time--which added
to his embarrassment.

These small maneuvres had not lasted long before the girl became aware
that the silent attention of Whistling Dan had passed from her to the
doctor--and held steadily upon him. She did not go so far as to call it
jealousy, but certainly it was a grave and serious consideration that
measured the doctor up and down and back again; and it left her free to
examine the two men in contrast. For the first time it struck her that
they were much alike in many ways. Physically, for instance, there was
the same slenderness, the same delicacy with which the details were
finished; the same fragile hands, for instance. The distinction lay in a
suggestion of strength and inexhaustible reserve of energy which Dan
Barry possessed. The distinction lay still more in their faces. That of
Byrne was worn and pallied from the long quest and struggle for truth;
the body was feeble; the eyes were uncertain; but within there was a
powerful machine which could work infallibly from the small to the large
and the large to the small. With Whistling Dan there was no suggestion
at all of mental care. She could not imagine him worrying over a
problem. His knowledge was not even communicable by words; it was more
impalpable than the instinct of a woman; and there was about him the
wisdom and the coldness of Black Bart himself.

The supper ended too soon for Kate. She had been rallying Randall Byrne,
and as soon as he could graciously leave, the poor fellow rose with a
crimson face and left the room; and behind him, sauntering apparently in
the most casual manner, went Whistling Dan. As for Kate Cumberland, she
could not put all the inferences together--she dared not; but when she
lay in her bed that night it was a long time before she could sleep, for
there was a voice inside her, singing.

She chose her time the next day. Dan alternated between Black Bart and
old Joe Cumberland during most of the day, and no sooner had he left
the wolf-dog in the morning than she went out to Bart.

As always, Black Bart lay with his head flattened against the sand,
dreaming in the sun, and not an eyelid quivered when she approached, yet
she understood perfectly that the animal knew every move she made. She
would have attempted to dress the wound again, but the memory of the
ordeal of yesterday was too terrible. She might break down in the midst
of her effort, and the first sign of weakness, she knew,