“There is your handkerchief, Richard,” he said.  “Strange!”

“What is strange?”

“You told us you had hurt yourself with the ax—­”

“Well?”

“There is no blood on your handkerchief.”

Wardour snatched the handkerchief out of Crayford’s hand, and, turning away, approached the outer door of the hut.  “No blood on the handkerchief,” he said to himself.  “There may be a stain or two when Crayford sees it again.”  He stopped within a few paces of the door, and spoke to Crayford.  “You recommended me to take leave of my brother officers before it was too late,” he said.  “I am going to follow your advice.”

The door was opened from the outer side as he laid his hand on the lock.

One of the quartermasters of the Wanderer entered the hut.

“Is Captain Helding here, sir?” he asked, addressing himself to Wardour.

Wardour pointed to Crayford.

“The lieutenant will tell you,” he said.

Crayford advanced and questioned the quartermaster.  “What do you want with Captain Helding?” he asked.

“I have a report to make, sir.  There has been an accident on the ice.”

“To one of your men?”

“No, sir.  To one of our officers.”

Wardour, on the point of going out, paused when the quartermaster made that reply.  For a moment he considered with himself.  Then he walked slowly back to the part of the room in which Frank was standing.  Crayford, directing the quartermaster, pointed to the arched door way in the side of the hut.

“I am sorry to hear of the accident,” he said.  “You will find Captain Helding in that room.”

For the second time, with singular persistency, Wardour renewed the conversation with Frank.

“So you knew the Burnhams?” he said.  “What became of Clara when her father died?”

Frank’s face flushed angrily on the instant.

“Clara!” he repeated.  “What authorizes you to speak of Miss Burnham in that familiar manner?”

Wardour seized the opportunity of quarreling with him.

“What right have you to ask?” he retorted, coarsely.

Frank’s blood was up.  He forgot his promise to Clara to keep their engagement secret—­he forgot everything but the unbridled insolence of Wardour’s language and manner.

“A right which I insist on your respecting,” he answered.  “The right of being engaged to marry her.”

Crayford’s steady eyes were still on the watch, and Wardour felt them on him.  A little more and Crayford might openly interfere.  Even Wardour recognized for once the necessity of controlling his temper, cost him what it might.  He made his apologies, with overstrained politeness, to Frank.

“Impossible to dispute such a right as yours,” he said.  “Perhaps you will excuse me when you know that I am one of Miss Burnham’s old friends.  My father and her father were neighbors.  We have always met like brother and sister—­”