no doubt the woman would soon wear Imbrie down.
If he, Stonor, could only communicate with Clare it would help.

Imbrie turned to Clare with what he meant for an ingratiating smile. "Is
your memory coming back at all?" he asked.

In itself there was nothing offensive in the question, and Clare had the
wit to see that nothing was to be gained by unnecessarily snubbing the
man. "No," she said simply.

"But you're all right in every other way. There's nothing the matter
with you?"

She let it go at that.

"You don't remember the days when I was courting you?"

"No," she said with an idle air, "where was that?"

He saw the trap. "I'll tell you some other time.--Redbreast has long
ears."

While Imbrie's attention was occupied by Clare a possible way of sending
her a message occurred to Stonor. The woman was busy at some paces'
distance. Stonor was sitting on a flat stone with his feet in the sand.
Carelessly picking up a stick, he commenced to make letters in the sand.
Clare, whose eyes never left him for long, instantly became aware of
what he was doing; but so well did she cover her glances that Imbrie
took no alarm.

Stonor, printing a word at a time, and instantly rubbing it out with his
foot, wrote: "Make out to scorn me."

Meanwhile Imbrie was making agreeable conversation and Clare was leading
him on sufficiently to keep him interested. Small as his success was, he
was charmed with it. Finally he rose regretfully.

"Time to go," he said. "Go get in your harness, Stonor."

The trooper arose and slouched to the tracking-line with a hang-dog air.
Clare's eyes followed him in well-assumed indignation at his supineness.

"He'll make a good pack-horse yet," said Imbrie with a laugh.

"So it seems," she said bitterly.

They started. Imbrie, much encouraged by this little passage, continued
to bait Stonor at intervals during the afternoon. The policeman, fearful
of appearing to submit too suddenly, sometimes rebelled, but always
sullenly gave in when Imbrie raised his gun. Stonor saw that, so far as
the man was concerned, he need have little fear of overdoing his part.
Imbrie in his vanity was quite ready to believe that Clare was turning
from Stonor to him. On the other hand, the breed woman was not at all
deceived. Her lip curled scornfully at all this by-play.

Clare's glance at Stonor, keeping up what she had begun, progressed from
surprise through indignation to open scorn. Meanwhile in the same ratio