of self-interest.

He mixed a weak draught of brandy and water and returned to the bedside.
The storm was passing in convulsive gasps ever more widely spaced, but
still the girl lay with her back to him.

"If you'll sit up and try to drink this," he suggested quietly, "I think
you'll feel a good deal better."

Her shoulders moved spasmodically; otherwise he saw no sign that she
heard.

"Come--please," he begged gently.

She made an effort to rise, sat up on the bed, dabbed at her eyes with a
sodden wisp of handkerchief, and groped blindly for the glass. He
offered it to her lips.

"What is it?" she whispered hoarsely.

He spoke of the mixture in disparaging terms as to its potency, until at
length she consented to swallow it--teeth chattering on the rim of the
tumbler. The effect was quickly apparent in the colour that came into
her cheeks, faint but warm. He avoided looking directly at her, however,
and cast round for the bell-push, which he presently found near the head
of the bed.

She moved quickly with alarm.

"What are you going to do?" she demanded in a stronger voice.

"Order you something to eat," he said. "No--please don't object. You
need food, and I mean to see you get it before I leave."

If she thought of protesting, the measured determination in his manner
deterred her. After a moment she asked:

"Please--who are you?"

"My name is Whitaker," he said--"Hugh Morten Whitaker."

She repeated the name aloud. "Haven't I heard of you? Aren't you engaged
to Alice Carstairs?"

"I'm the man you mean," he said quietly; "but I'm not engaged to Alice
Carstairs."

"Oh...." Perplexity clouded the eyes that followed closely his every
movement. "How did you happen to--to find me here?"

"Quite by accident," he replied. "I didn't want to be known, so
registered as Hugh Morten. They mistook me for your husband. Do you mind
telling me how long it is since you've had anything to eat?"

She told him: "Last night."

He suffered a sense of shame only second to her own, to see the dull
flush that accompanied her reply. His fingers itched for the throat of
Mr. C. W. Morton, chauffeur. Happily a knock at the door distracted him.
Opening it no wider than necessary to communicate with the bell-boy, he
gave him an order for the kitchen, together with an incentive to speed
the service.

Closing the door, he swung round to find that the girl had got to her
feet.

"He won't be long--" Whitaker began vaguely.