“But I can’t afford to nurse this hand”—­Hollis rose from the couch where he had thrown himself when he came in from the doctor’s office—­“I ought to be using it now.”  He went over and drew the blinds, but the atmosphere seemed more stifling.  He needed air, plenty of it, clean and fresh in God’s out-of-doors; it was being penned in these close rooms that raised his temperature.  He pulled the shades up again and took a turn across the floor.  Then he noticed the crumpled note which, aimed left-handedly, had missed the waste basket earlier, when he opened his mail, and he went over and picked it up.  He stood smoothing it on his desk.  A perfume, spicy yet suggestive of roses, pervaded the sheet, which was written in a round, firm, masculine hand, under the gilt monogram, M.F.  His glance ran through the lines: 

“I am writing for my brother, Frederic Morganstein, who is recuperating aboard his yacht, to ask you to join us on a little cruise around Bainbridge Island this afternoon at four o’clock.  Ever since his interests have been identified with Alaska, he has hoped to know you personally, and he wishes particularly to meet you now, to thank you for your services in Snoqualmie Pass.  In the general confusion after the accident I am afraid none of us remembered to.

“We expect to touch at the Navy Yard and again at Frederic’s new villa to see how the work is coming on, but the trip should not take longer than four hours, and we are dining informally on board.

“Do not trouble to answer.  If the salt air is a strong enough lure this warm day, you will find the Aquila at Pier Three.

“Very truly yours,

“MARCIA FEVERSHAM.

“Tuesday, September seventh.”

“That floating palace ought to stir up some breeze.”  Tisdale crumpled the invitation again and dropped it deliberately in the waste basket.  “And to-morrow I shall be shut up on my eastbound train.”  He looked at his watch; there was still half an hour to spare before the time of sailing.  “After all, why not?”

A little later, when he had hurried into white flannels as expeditiously as possible with his disabled hand, the suggestion crept to his inner consciousness that he might find Mrs. Weatherbee aboard the Aquila.  “Well, why not?” he asked himself again.  “Why not?” and picked up his hat.

So he came to Pier Number Three and, looking down the gangway as he crossed, saw her standing in the little group awaiting him on the after deck.  Morganstein spoke to him and introduced him to the ladies.  He did not avoid her look and, under his appraising eyes, he saw the color begin to play in her face.  Then her glance fell to his bandaged hand, and an inquiry rushed to her lips.  But she checked the words in time and drew slowly aloof to a seat near the rail.

Tisdale took a place near the reclining chair of his host.  When she ventured to give him a swift side-glance, his mouth set austerely.  But the space between them became electrical.  It was as though wireless messages passed continually between them.