to tighter compass, but no other
restraint did she feel in the presence of the man her friends accused
of unthinkable crimes. The inheritance of her femininity assured her
that she was in no danger. Koppy had always liked her--she knew that
also by virtue of that inheritance; and every woman loves the strong
thing that bends to her--loves, but perhaps does not respect.

Unconscious of the challenging coyness of words and manner, she spoke:

"You didn't frighten me a bit, Koppy."

"I didn't want to," he replied in a low voice.

"I don't think I heard you. I guess I must have--felt you."

He moved swiftly in among the trees and stood before her, soiled hat
turning in grimy hands.

"You--felt me?"

A vague and sudden sense of discomfort made her raise puzzled eyes to
his, but she dismissed it firmly as born of her father's suspicions.
Still she wished he would not stand so close, stooping over her, with
that funny look in his eyes. Suggestively she glanced at the white
trunk on which she was seated, and moved further along.

"I suppose it's an instinct," she said. "Animals must feel like that
about things they can't see or hear. Haven't you often been conscious
of being watched when you couldn't see the watcher?"

He smiled from a world of superior knowledge; the unseen watcher was
the foundation of the big game he was ever playing. The smile ended in
a short laugh, and somehow it startled her--she seemed so naked in
thought before this strange foreigner.

"You know what I mean," she went on lamely. "I suppose a gopher
peering from its hole in the ground would disturb me sooner or later."

"Don't explain," he almost pleaded, "don't try to explain." He seated
himself far up the trunk.

Again her puzzled eyes were on him. In some indefinite way he was so
different, so--so human and equal. Outwardly there was no evidence of
the change--the same nondescript clothes, the same grimy hands and
face, the same coarse boots and clumsiness.

He seemed to read her thoughts, for with a gesture of long-suppressed
protest he threw out his hands.

"Yes," he cried, "they're gnarled and dirty, and these old overalls are
the mark of my degradation." He flung his hat passionately on the
ground. "But I'm not always this way. Back in Chicago I
dress--sometimes. There I'm what I like to be, what I can be. Not
often--it is not that way I rule."

Her eyes were wide with surprise. "You--you speak--"

He shrugge