“Where is the Lieutenant?” hesitating slightly.

“In Henley’s cabin, going through the papers.  He wants to have a full report ready when the Saline comes up.  The three of us will breakfast together.”

“You must permit me to wash the wound on your head first,” she insisted.  “The hair is all matted with blood.  Please.”

“Of course,” and I laughed.  “Even then I will not be very presentable; these clothes are frightful; the last week has been a strenuous one.”

“What about me!” and she shot a look downward.  “I ’ve only had the one dress.”

“The marvel of it,” I interrupted ardently.  “You look as though you had just come from the dressing-table.”

“You do not think so!”

“But I do; still, it may be a case where love is blind.”

The fresh color swept into her cheeks.

“That is the only explanation possible, I am sure.  See how the skirt is stained, and the lace ruffle is almost torn off.”

“Oh, well, don’t worry; the Lieutenant has lost his natty appearance also.  Some villain slashed his coat its full length.  However, I accept your offer.”

She ministered to me with womanly gentleness, parting the matted hair, and cleansing the wound with water.  While in no way serious it was an ugly bruise, and required considerable attention.  Sitting there on a stool while she worked, I could hear Louis bustling about in the cabin, but my mind was busy with a thousand matters requiring settlement.  At last I refused to be ministered to any longer, laughing at her desire to bandage my head, and insisting that all I needed now was breakfast.  As we entered the cabin, the Lieutenant stood in Henley’s door.

“I was looking for you, Craig,” he said, coming forward, and bowing to my companion.  “Here is a newspaper clipping which may be of interest.  I found it on the deck.”

I read it hastily, and, in silence handed it to her, watching her face as she read.  It was a local item describing the finding of a dead body which could not be identified.  The details of the man’s appearance as well as the clothes worn were carefully depicted, evidently in hope someone might thus recognize the party.  She remained with the bit of paper in her hands for what seemed a long while, while we waited.  Then her eyes were slowly lifted to our faces.

“That was Philip Henley,” she said soberly.

“You are sure?”

“There is no possibility of mistake; the description is almost photographic and the clothing I remember well.”

“Your husband, madam?” asked the Lieutenant, as I remained silent.

“Yes; legally my husband, although he had driven me from him by dissipation and neglect.  I—­I cannot tell you the wretched story now.”

“Nor do I ask it,” he hastened to assure her.  “What is it, Mapes?”

A blue-jacket stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand lifted in salute.