Quick her breath was coming now, and across the fire for a moment she met his eyes.  His face was gray, and his hands at his sides were clenched.

“I’ll—­I’ll get the seat out of the car,” he said hoarsely.  “It will help to make things more comfortable.”  And turning abruptly, he started back for the road again.

Helena did not move.  Mechanically her eyes took in the little hut, crude, but rainproof at least—­branches heaped across two forked limbs for a roof; the trunk of a big tree for the rear wall; branches thrust upright into the ground for the sides—­the whole a little triangular shaped affair.  The fire blazed in front just within shelter at the entrance; and beside it was piled quite a little heap of fuel that he had gathered.

He came back bringing the leather upholstered seat, shook the rain from it, and dried it with the help of the fire and his handkerchief—­then set it down inside the hut.  His face was turned from her; and as he spoke, breaking an awkward silence, his voice was conscious, hurried.

“I’m not going to be gone a minute more than I can help, Miss Vail.  It’s mighty rough accommodation for you, but there’s one consolation at least—­you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Helena seated herself, and held her skirt to the fire.

“Gone!” she said, a little dully.  “Where are you going?”

“Why, to get help of course,” he told her.

“Help!”—­she shook her head.  “You don’t know where to find any—­you only know for a certainty that there isn’t any within miles.”

“I know there’s a house back on the main road,” he said.  “I noticed it as we came along.”

“That’s seven or eight miles from here,” she returned.  “And it’s raining harder than ever—­mud up to your ankles—­it would take you hours to reach it.”

“Possibly two, or two and a half,” he said lightly.

“Yes; and another two at least to get back.  I won’t hear of you doing any such thing—­you are wet through now.  It’s far better to wait for daylight and then probably the storm will be over.”

“But don’t you see, Miss Vail”—­his voice was suddenly grave, masterful—­“don’t you see that there is no other thing to do?”

“No,” said Helena.  “I don’t see anything of the kind.  I won’t have you do anything like that for me—­it’s not to be thought of.”

Thornton stooped, placed a knot upon the fire, straightened up—­and faced her.

“It’s awfully good of you to think of me,” he said in a low tone; “but, really, it won’t be half as bad as you are picturing it in your mind.  And really”—­he hesitated, fumbling for his words—­“you see—­that is—­what other people might say—­your—­reputation—­”

With a sudden cry, white-faced, Helena was on her feet, staring at him, her hands clutched at her bosom—­a wild, demoniacal, mocking orgy in her soul.  Her reputation!  It seemed she wanted to scream out the words—­her reputation!