She could not see Donnegan’s flush, but she heard his teeth grit.  And he slipped through the window, gesturing to George to come close.  It was still darker inside the room—­far darker than the starlit night outside.  And the one path of lighter gray was the bed of Jack Landis.  His heavy breathing was the only sound.  Donnegan kneeled beside him and worked his arms under the limp figure.

And while he kneeled there a door in the house was opened and closed softly.  Donnegan stood up.

“Is the door locked?”

“No,” whispered the girl.

“Quick!”

“Too late.  It’s father, and he’d hear the turning of the key.”

They waited, while the light, quick step came down the hall of the cabin.  It came to the door, it went past; and then the steps retraced and the door was opened gently.

There was a light in the hall; the form of Lebrun was outlined black and distinct..

“Jack!” he whispered.

No sound; he made as if to enter, and then he heard the heavy breathing of the sleeper, apparently.

“Asleep, poor fool,” murmured the gambler, and closed the door.

The door was no sooner closed than Donnegan had raised the body of the sleeper.  Once, as he rose, straining, it nearly slipped from his arms; and when he stood erect he staggered.  But once he had gained his equilibrium, he carried the wounded man easily enough to the window through which George reached his long arms and lifted out the burden.

“You see?” said Donnegan, panting, to the girl.

“Yes; it was really wonderful!”

“You are laughing, now.”

“I?  But hurry.  My father has a fox’s ear for noises.”

“He will not hear this, I think.”  There was a swift scuffle, very soft of movement.

“Nelly!” called a far-off voice.

“Hurry, hurry!  Don’t you hear?”

“You forgive me?”

“No—­yes—­but hurry!”

“You will remember me?”

“Mr. Donnegan!”

“Adieu!”

She caught a picture of him sitting in the window for the split part of a second, with his hat off, bowing to her.  Then he was gone.  And she went into the hall, panting with excitement.

“Heavens!” Nelly Lebrun murmured.  “I feel as if I had been hunted, and I must look it.  What if he—­” Whatever the thought was she did not complete it.  “It may have been for the best,” added Nelly Lebrun.

29

It is your phlegmatic person who can waken easily in the morning, but an active mind readjusts itself slowly to the day.  So Nelly Lebrun roused herself with an effort and scowled toward the door at which the hand was still rapping.

“Yes?” she called drowsily.

“This is Nick.  May I come in?”

“This is who?”

The name had brought her instantly into complete wakefulness; she was out of the bed, had slipped her feet into her slippers and whipped a dressing gown around her while she was asking the question.  It was a luxurious little boudoir which she had managed to equip.  Skins of the lynx, cunningly matched, had been sewn together to make her a rug, and the soft fur of the wildcat was the outer covering of her bed.  She threw back the tumbled bedclothes, tossed half a dozen pillows into place, transforming it into a day couch, and ran to the mirror.