“He’s gone off to find somebody to help us get away from here:  a carriage or wagon of some sort, and some food and clothes.”

Something caused Jim to ejaculate, though quite feebly, “You poor thing!” And then he asked, very slowly, “Where is ’here’?”

“I don’t know; and Mr. Hand doesn’t know.”

“And we’ve lost our tags,” laughed Jim faintly.

Agatha couldn’t resist the laugh, though the weakness in Jim’s voice was almost enough to make her weep as well.

“Yes, we’ve lost our tags, more’s the pity.  Mr. Hand thinks we’re either on the coast of Maine, of on an island somewhere near the coast.  I myself think it must at least be Nova Scotia, or possibly Newfoundland.  But Hand will find out and be back soon, and then we’ll get away from here and go to some place where we’ll all be comfortable.”

Agatha stole away, and with much difficulty succeeded in kindling the fire again.  She tended it until a good steady heat spread over the rocks, and then returned to James.  She curled up, half sitting, half lying, against the rocks.

Clouds had risen during the recent hours, and it was much darker than the night before had been.  The ocean, washing its million pebbles up on the little beach, moaned and complained incessantly.  In the long intervals between their talk, Agatha’s head would fall, her eyes would close, and she would almost sleep; but an undercurrent of anxiety concerning her companion kept her always at the edge of consciousness.  James himself appeared to have no desire to sleep.  He was trying to piece together, in his mind, his conscious and unconscious memories.  At last he said: 

“I guess I haven’t been much good—­for a while—­have I?”

Agatha considered before replying.  “You were quite exhausted, I think; and we feared you might be ill.”

“And Handy Andy got my job?” She laughed outright at this, as much for the feeling of reassurance it gave her as for the jest itself.

“Handy Andy certainly had a job, with us two on his hands!” she laughed.

“I bet he did!” cried James, with more vigor than he had shown before.  “He’s a great man; I’m for him!  When’s he coming back?”

“Early in the morning, I hope,” said Agatha, swallowing her misgivings.

“That’s good,” said James.  “I think I’ll be about and good for something myself by that time.”

There was another long pause, so long that Agatha thought James must have gone to sleep again.  He thought likewise of her, it appeared; for when he next spoke it was in a careful whisper: 

“Are you still awake, Agatha Redmond?”

“Yes, indeed; quite.  Do you want anything?”

“Yes, a number of things.  First, are you quite recovered from the trouble—­that night’s awful trouble?” He seemed to be wholly lost as to time.  “Did you come off without any serious injury?  Do you look like yourself, strong and rosy-cheeked again?”