urrender.

The girl had not stopped to question the propriety of her actions. That
the Cabin was Peter's bedroom, that she had only seen him twice, that he
might not have understood the headlong impulse that brought her, had
never occurred to Beth. The self-consciousness of the first few moments
had been wafted away on the melody of the music he had played, and after
that he knew they were to be friends. There seemed to be no doubt in
Peter's mind that she could have thought they would be anything else.

And Peter was sure that he had hardly been able, even if he had wished,
to conceal his warm admiration for her physical beauty. She had been
very near him. All he would have had to do was to reach out and take
her. That he hadn't done so seemed rather curious now. And yet he
experienced a sort of mild satisfaction that he had resisted so trying a
temptation. If she hadn't been so sure of him.... Idealism? Perhaps. The
same sort of idealism that had made Peter believe the people at Zukovo
were fine enough to make it worth while risking his life for them--that
had made him think that the people of Russia could emerge above Russia
herself. He had no illusions as to Zukovo now, but Beth was a child--and
one is always gentle with children.

He puzzled for another moment over her decision not to be seen coming
with him from the Cabin. Had this sophistication come as an
afterthought, born of something that had passed between them? Or was it
merely a feminine instinct seeking expression? Peter didn't care who
knew or saw, because he really liked Beth amazingly. She had a gorgeous
voice. He would have to develop it. He really would.

All the while Peter was turning over in his fingers the placard bearing
the strange message to "Mike" McGuire from the mysterious "Hawk." He
read and reread it, each time finding a new meaning in its wording.
Blackmail? Probably. The "_pronto_" was significant. This message could
hardly have come from Beth's "bandy-legged buzzard." He knew little of
movie camera men, but imagined them rather given to the depiction of
villainies than the accomplishment of them. And a coward who would prey
upon an old woman and a child could hardly be of the metal to attempt
such big game as McGuire. The mystery deepened. The buzzard was now a
hawk. "Hawk," whatever his real name, was the man McGuire had seen last
night through the window. Was he also the man who had frightened Mrs.
Bergen? And if so, how and where