“Thank you.”  He took it absently.

“It serves divers purposes,” she murmured.  And Mr. Heatherbloom, remembering the more violent employment he had found for it the night before, flushed slightly.

She added delicate emphasis to her remark by assisting him.  With her own fingers she tied a knot, and rather painstakingly spread out the ends.  He endured grimly.  Miss Dalrymple appeared not to have observed the episode but, of course, it had in reality been all quite fully revealed to her.  It was in keeping with certain circumstances of the past that the Russian woman should not be unmindful of him, her confrere in the conspiracy.  That much was patent; but other happenings were not so easily reconciled.  What had taken place on the deck of the Nevski in those breathless last few moments as they were escaping, was in ill conformity with those amicable relations which should have existed between the two.  This man’s presence in the boat, in the place of Francois, could be explained by no logical process with the premises she had at her command.

The bandage possessed a subtly weird and bizarre interest for the young girl.  He had been injured.  How?  For what reason?  Betty Dalrymple’s mind swept, seemingly without very definite cause, to another scene, one of violence.  Again she heard the crashing of glass and saw forms leaping into the cabin.  Her thoughts reverted, on the instant, to the unknown helper she had been obliged to leave behind.  Somehow, real as he had been, he seemed at this moment strangely apart, something in the abstract.  Then all illusive speculations merged abruptly into a realization that needed no demonstration.  Sonia Turgeinov possessed a certain outre attractiveness the young girl had never noted before.  The violet eyes, shining through the long shading lashes, rested a moment on her; then passed steadily beyond.

“I’m off for a look around.”  Mr. Heatherbloom, having transferred their meager possessions to the tent, now addressed Miss Dalrymple, or Sonia Turgeinov, or an indefinite space between them.  “Better stay right here while I’m gone.”  His tones had a firm accent.  “Sorry there are only biscuits for breakfast, but perhaps there’ll be better fare before long.  If you should move around”—­his eye lingered authoritatively on Betty Dalrymple—­“keep to the beach.”

“How very solicitous!” laughed Sonia Turgeinov as the young man strode off.  “That was intended especially for you, Mademoiselle.  As for me, it does not matter.”  With a shrug.  “I might stroll into the wood, be devoured by wild beasts, and who would care?”

Betty Dalrymple did not answer.

“A truce, Mademoiselle!” said the other in the same gay tone.  “I know very well what you think of me.  You told me very clearly on the Nevski, and before that, on shore.  In this instance, however, since it is through no fault or choice of mine that we are thrown thus closely together, would it not be well to make the best of the situation?”