e wet."

"Very well."

He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung it
open. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. She
walked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon the
outer world. Banneker's fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmed
beauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted
the "Quick-heater" oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followed
him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled.

"This is not a station," she said.

"No. It's my shack. Are you cold?"

"Not very." She shivered a little.

"You say that some one hurt you?"

"Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer."

A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his
revolver.

"The hoboes," he whispered under his breath. "But they didn't rob you,"
he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand.

"No. I don't think so. I ran away."

"Where was it?"

"On the train."

Enlightenment burst upon him. "You're sure--" he began. Then, "Tell me
all you can about it."

"I don't remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. The door
was open. Some one must have come in and struck me. Here." She put her
left hand tenderly to her head.

Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the
temple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale.

"Sit still," he said. "I'll fix it."

While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages and
gauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neither
fear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed the
wound very carefully.

"Does it hurt?" he asked.

"My head feels queer. Inside."

"I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here.
It's quite raw."

It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his
hasty sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of
luster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued,
clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy
lids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of
Cressey's inquiry.

"May I?" he said.

"Cut my hair?" she asked. "Oh, no!"

"Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won't show.
There's so much of it."

"Please," she answered, yielding.

He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings.
Completed, the bandage