“Nothing.  No reason.  Won’t you tell me what happened?”

“Come inside.”  He held open the door against the wind.

“No.  It’s musty.”  She wrinkled a dainty nose.  “Can’t we talk here?  I love the feel of the air and the wet.  And the world!  I’m glad I wasn’t killed.”

“So am I,” he said soberly.

“When my brain wouldn’t work quite right yesterday, I thought that some one had hit me.  That isn’t so, is it?”

“No.  Your train was wrecked.  You were injured.  In the confusion you must have run away.”

“Yes.  I remember being frightened.  Terribly frightened.  I’d never been that way before.  Outside of that one idea of fear, everything was mixed up.  I ran until I couldn’t run any more and dropped down.”

“And then?”

“I got up and ran again.  Have you ever been afraid?”

“Plenty of times.”

“I hadn’t realized before that there was anything in the world to be afraid of.  But the thought of that blow, coming so suddenly from nowhere, and the fear that I might be struck again—­it drove me.”  She flung out her hands in a little desperate gesture that twitched at Banneker’s breath.

“You must have been out all night in the rain."’

“No.  I found a sort of cabin in the woods.  It was deserted.”

“Dutch Cal’s place.  It’s only a few rods back in.”

“I saw a light from there and that suggested to my muddled brain that I might get something to eat.”

“So you came over here.”

“Yes.  But the fear came on me again and I didn’t dare knock.  I suppose I prowled.”

“Gardner thought he heard ghosts.  But ghosts don’t steal molasses pie.”

She looked at him solemnly.  “Must one steal to get anything to eat here?”

“I’m sorry,” he cried.  “I’ll get you breakfast right away.  What will you have?  There isn’t much.”

“Anything there is.  But if I’m to board with you, you must let me pay my way.”

“The company is responsible for that.”

Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him.  “You actually are the agent,” she mused.  “That’s quaint.”

“I don’t see anything quaint about it.  Now, if you’ll make yourself comfortable I’ll go over to the shack and rustle something for breakfast.”

“No; I’d rather go with you.  Perhaps I can help.”

Such help as the guest afforded was negligible.  When, from sundry of the Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal had been derived, she set to it with a good grace.

“There’s more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when you really need it,” she remarked gratefully.  “You spoke of a Mr. Gardner.  Who is he?”

“A reporter who spent night before last here.”

She dropped her cracker, oleomargarine-side down.  “A reporter?”

“He came down to write up the wreck.  It’s a bad one.  Nine dead, so far.”