“So do I,” replied Ruth.

“You have lived over here?”—­astonished.

“I was born in the South Seas and I am on my way to America, to an aunt.”

“Well, it’s mighty fine of you to break your journey in this fashion—­for someone you don’t know, a passer-by.”

He held out his dry hard hand into which she placed hers.  The manager had sketched the girl’s character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner.  “You will find her new.”  New?  That did not describe her.  Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—­a natural woman.  She would be extraordinarily interesting as a metaphysical study.  She would be surrendering to all her impulses—­particularly the good impulses—­many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble.  Imagine her, putting herself to all this delay and inconvenience for a young wastrel she did not know and who, the moment he got on his feet, would doubtless pass out of her life without so much as Thank you!  And it was ten to one that she would not comprehend the ingratitude.  To such characters, fine actions are in themselves sufficient.

Perhaps her odd beauty—­and that too was natural—­stirred these thoughts into being.  Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes.  It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably.  A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth.  In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl.  She would be healthy, too, and vigorous.  Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly.

All this while he was arranging the medicines on the stand and jotting down his instructions on a chart sheet.  He had absorbed her in a single glance, and was now defining her as he worked.  After a while he spoke again.

“Our talking will not bother him.  He will be some time in this comatose state.  Later, there will be fever, after I’ve got his heart pumping.  Now, he must have folks somewhere.  I’m going through his pockets.  It’s only right that his people should know where he is and what has happened to him.”

But he searched in vain.  Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets:  no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor’s label.  Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive.  He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to dig into his trunk,” he said.  “There’s nothing in his clothes.  Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn’t a case to fiddle-faddle over.  Will you stand by and watch me?”

The contents of the trunk only thickened the fog.  Here again the clothes were minus the labels.  All the linen was new and stamped with the mark of Whiteaway, Laidlaw & Co., British merchants with branches all over the East.  At the bottom of the trunk was a large manila envelope, unmarked.  The doctor drew out the contents hopefully.