“Why?” Hand stopped a moment, as if baffled at the difficulty of putting such obvious philosophy into words.  “Why?  Because that’s the way people are—­never satisfied till they uncover and root up every blamed thing in a man’s life.  Yes, Mademoiselle, you know it’s true.  They’ll always be uneasy with me around.”

Agatha was aware that when a man utters what he considers to be a general truth, it is useless to enter the field of argument.

“Suppose you do have ‘an hour’s start,’ as you express it.  Where would you go?”

“Oh, I’ll look about for a while.  After that I’m going to Mr. Hambleton in Lynn.  He’s going to have a new car.”

“Ah!” Agatha suddenly saw light.  “Then there’s only one thing.  Mr. Hambleton must know the truth.  It can concern no one else.  Will you tell him?”

Mr. Hand produced his dry smile.  “Nobody has to tell Mr. Hambleton anything.  He looked straight into my face that day on the hill, as we were leaving the park.”

“And he remembers?”

Something strange in Hand’s expression arrested Agatha’s attention, long before he found tongue to answer.  It was a look of happiness and pride, as if he owned a treasure.  “He remembers very well, Mademoiselle.”

“And what—?”

“You can’t help but be square with him, Mademoiselle.  But as for these gentlemen of style—­”

Hand paused in his oratory, his slow anger again burning on the surface.  Before Agatha knew what he was about, he had picked up the handkerchief from her lap between thumb and forefinger, and was holding it at arm’s length.

“You can’t squeeze a man’s history out of him, as you squeeze water out of a handkerchief, Mademoiselle,” he flared out.  “And you can’t drop him and pick him up again, nor throw him down.  You can’t do that with a man, Mademoiselle!”

He tossed the flimsy linen back into her lap.  “And I don’t want any dealings with your Strakers—­nor gentlemen of that stamp.”

“Nor Chatelards?”

“He’s slick—­slick as they make ’em.  But he isn’t an inquisitive meddler.”

Agatha laughed outright; and somehow, by the blessed alchemy of amusement, the air was cleared and Mr. Hand’s trouble faded out of importance.  But Agatha could not let him go without one further word.  She met his gaze with a straightforward look, as she asked:  “Tell me, have I failed to treat you as a friend, Mr. Hand?”

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” he cried; and there was a touch of shame and compunction in his voice.  As he stood before Agatha, she was reminded of his shamed and cowed appearance in the cove, on the day of their rescue, when he had waited for her anger to fall on him.  She saw that he had gained something, some intangible bit of manliness and dignity, won during these weeks of service in her house.  And she guessed rightly that it was due to the man whom he had so ungrudgingly nursed.