Why did Argyl want him—­to-night?  He put his fingers to his cheek where Brayley’s fist had cut into the flesh.  How could he go to her like this?  He was on the verge of telling Lonesome Pete that he could not go, of framing some excuse, any excuse.  But instead he closed his lips without speaking, picked up his hat and went straight toward the house.

She was waiting for him at the little summer-house upon the front lawn.  He saw the white of her lacy gown, the flash of her arms as he came nearer, her outstretched hand as he came to her side.  With his hat caught under his right arm he put out his left hand to take hers.

“You were good to come so soon,” she was saying.

“It was good to come,” he rejoined, warmly.  “You know how glad I am for every opportunity I have to see you.”

“What is the matter with your hand?” she asked, quickly.  “Your right hand?”

“I hurt it,” he answered, easily.  “Nothing serious.  It will be well in a day or two.”

“How did you hurt it?” she persisted.

“Really, Miss Crawford,” he retorted, trying to laugh away the seriousness of her tone, “there are so many ways for a man to damage his epidermis in this sort of work—­”

She was standing close to him, looking intently up into his face through the gathering darkness.

“Tell me—­why did you do it?”

“What?  Smash my fingers?”

“Yes.  In the way you did!”

“What do you mean?” he hesitated, wondering what she knew.

“On Brayley’s face!  Why did you fight with him?”

“Who told you?”

“Brayley.  He had to come to see father this evening.  I saw his face.  I heard him tell father that he had had trouble with one of the men.  I was afraid that it was you!  I followed him out into the yard and asked him.  It is no doubt none of my business—­but will you tell me why you fought with him?”

“I think that I would answer anything you cared to ask me, Miss Crawford,” he replied, quietly.  “Will you sit down with me for a little?” He moved slowly at her side, back to the seat in the summer-house, grateful for any reason which gave him the privilege of talking with her, watching her quick play of expression.  “You see, my object seemed so clear-cut and simple—­and now gets itself all tangled up in complexity when I try to explain it to you.  For one thing, ever since my first night on the Half Moon when Brayley put me out I have felt that it was up to me to finish what was begun that night.  For another thing, I was trying to prove a theory, I imagine!  I didn’t really believe that Brayley was the better man.  And lastly, and perhaps most important of all, I told you the other day that I was going to lick him.  It was a sort of promise, you know!”

She sat with her elbow upon her knee, her chin on her hand, her eyes lost in the shadow of her hair.  He knew that she was regarding him intently.  He guessed from the line of her cheek, from the slightly upturned curve at the corner of her mouth, that she was half inclined to be serious, and almost ready to smile at him.