honest man.
Looks to me as if there wasn't anything on this green earth he can't
do."

"Green ocean, too--he's quite as much at home there," laughed Agatha.

"Humph!" Mr. Straker grunted in disgust. "Let me assure you, Miss
Redmond, that it's no joking matter."

Tradition to the contrary, Agatha was content to let the man have the
last word. Mr. Straker turned to some business matters, wrote out
telegraphic material enough to occupy the leisurely Charlesport
operator for some hours, and then disappeared.

Agatha was impressed by the manager's words somewhat more than her
manner implied. She had no swift and sure judgment of people, and her
experience of the world, short as it was, had taught her that
recklessness is a costly luxury. She was meditating as to the wisest
course to pursue, when the ex-chauffeur appeared.

Hand wore his accustomed loose shirt and trousers without coat or
waistcoat, and it seemed as if he had never known a hat. His thick
hair was tumbled back from the forehead. His hands were now spotless,
and his whole appearance agreeably clean and wholesome. He even looked
as if he were going to be frank, but Agatha knew that must be a
delusion. It was impossible, however, not to be somewhat cajoled--he
was so eminently likable. Agatha took a lesson from his own book, and
waited in silence for him to speak.

"Mademoiselle?" His voice had an undertone of excitement or
nervousness that was wholly new.

"Well, Mr. Hand?"

He remained standing by the door for a moment, then stepped forward
with the abrupt manner of a stripling who, usually inarticulate, has
suddenly found tongue.

"Why did you do it, Mademoiselle?"

"Do what, my friend?"

"Back me up before the sheriff. Give me a slick walkout like that."

Agatha laughed good-humoredly.

"Why should I answer your questions, Mr. Hand, when you so persistently
ignore mine?"

Hand made a gesture of impatience.

"Mademoiselle, you may think me all kinds of a scamp, but I'm not idiot
enough to hide behind a woman. Don't you know me well enough to know
that?" he demanded so earnestly that he seemed very cross.

Agatha looked into his face with a new curiosity. He was very young,
after all. Something in the way of experience had been grinding
philosophy, of a sort, into him--or out of him. Wealth and position
had been his natural enemies, and he had somehow been led to an
attitude of antagonism that was, at bottom, quite foreign t