These small maneuvres had not lasted long before the girl became aware that the silent attention of Whistling Dan had passed from her to the doctor—­and held steadily upon him.  She did not go so far as to call it jealousy, but certainly it was a grave and serious consideration that measured the doctor up and down and back again; and it left her free to examine the two men in contrast.  For the first time it struck her that they were much alike in many ways.  Physically, for instance, there was the same slenderness, the same delicacy with which the details were finished; the same fragile hands, for instance.  The distinction lay in a suggestion of strength and inexhaustible reserve of energy which Dan Barry possessed.  The distinction lay still more in their faces.  That of Byrne was worn and pallied from the long quest and struggle for truth; the body was feeble; the eyes were uncertain; but within there was a powerful machine which could work infallibly from the small to the large and the large to the small.  With Whistling Dan there was no suggestion at all of mental care.  She could not imagine him worrying over a problem.  His knowledge was not even communicable by words; it was more impalpable than the instinct of a woman; and there was about him the wisdom and the coldness of Black Bart himself.

The supper ended too soon for Kate.  She had been rallying Randall Byrne, and as soon as he could graciously leave, the poor fellow rose with a crimson face and left the room; and behind him, sauntering apparently in the most casual manner, went Whistling Dan.  As for Kate Cumberland, she could not put all the inferences together—­she dared not; but when she lay in her bed that night it was a long time before she could sleep, for there was a voice inside her, singing.

She chose her time the next day.  Dan alternated between Black Bart and old Joe Cumberland during most of the day, and no sooner had he left the wolf-dog in the morning than she went out to Bart.

As always, Black Bart lay with his head flattened against the sand, dreaming in the sun, and not an eyelid quivered when she approached, yet she understood perfectly that the animal knew every move she made.  She would have attempted to dress the wound again, but the memory of the ordeal of yesterday was too terrible.  She might break down in the midst of her effort, and the first sign of weakness, she knew, was the only spur which Black Bart needed.  So she went, instead, to the chair where Dan often sat for hours near the dog, and there she took her place, folded her hands on her lap, and waited.  She had no particular plan in mind, more than that she hoped to familiarize the great brute with the sight of her.  Once he had known her well enough, but now he had forgotten all that passed before as completely, no doubt, as Whistling Dan himself had forgotten.