Carrigan had earned a reputation as the expert analyst of “N” Division.  In delicate matters it was seldom that McVane did not take him into consultation.  He possessed an almost uncanny grip on the working processes of a criminal mind, and the first rule he had set down for himself was to regard the acts of omission rather than the one outstanding act of commission.  But when he proved to himself that the chief actor in a drama possessed a normal rather than a criminal mind, he found himself in the position of checkmate.  It was a thrilling game.  And he was frankly puzzled now, until—­one after another—­he added up the sum total of what had been omitted in this instance of his own personal adventure.  Hidden in her ambush, the woman who had shot him had been in both purpose and act an assassin.  Her determination had been to kill him.  She had disregarded the white flag with which he had pleaded for mercy.  Her marksmanship was of fiendish cleverness.  Up to her last shot she had been, to all intent and purpose, a murderess.

The change had come when she looked down upon him, bleeding and helpless, in the sand.  Undoubtedly she had thought he was dying.  But why, when she saw his eyes open a little later, had she cried out her gratitude to God?  What had worked the sudden transformation in her?  Why had she labored to save the life she had so atrociously coveted a minute before?

If his assailant had been a man, Carrigan would have found an answer.  For he was not robbed, and therefore robbery was not a motif.  “A case of mistaken identity,” he would have told himself.  “An error in visual judgment.”

But the fact that in his analysis he was dealing with a woman made his answer only partly satisfying.  He could not disassociate himself from her eyes—­their beauty, their horror, the way they had looked at him.  It was as if a sudden revulsion had come over her; as if, looking down upon her bleeding handiwork, the woman’s soul in her had revolted, and with that revulsion had come repentance—­repentance and pity.

“That,” thought Carrigan, “would be just like a woman—­and especially a woman with eyes like hers.”

This left him but two conclusions to choose from.  Either there had been a mistake, and the woman had shown both horror and desire to amend when she discovered it, or a too tender-hearted agent of Black Roger Audemard had waylaid him in the heart of the white strip of sand.

The sun was another hour lower in the sky when Carrigan assured himself in a series of cautious experiments that he was not in a condition to stand upon his feet.  In his pack were a number of things he wanted—­his blankets, for instance, a steel mirror, and the thermometer in his medical kit.  He was beginning to feel a bit anxious about himself.  There were sharp pains back of his eyes.  His face was hot, and he was developing an unhealthy appetite for water.  It was fever and he knew what fever meant in this sort of thing, when one was alone.  He had given up hope of the woman’s return.  It was not reasonable to expect her to come back after her furious attempt to kill him.  She had bandaged him, bolstered him up, placed water beside him, and had then left him to work out the rest of his salvation alone.  But why the deuce hadn’t she brought up his pack?