“Doubtless,” I said. “you have not recognized in me the officer who was at some slight pains to be of service——­”

“What is it you desire?” said she, so rudely that I felt my face burn hot.

“See here, my lass,” said I sharply, “you seem to misunderstand my errand here.”

“And am like to,” said she, “unless you make your errand short and plainer—­ though I have learned that the errands which bring such men as you to me are not too easily misunderstood.”

“Such men as I——­”

“You and your friend with the bold, black eyes.  Ask him how much change he had of me when he came back.”

“I did not know he had seen you again,” said I, still redder.  And saw that she believed me not.

“Birds sing; men lie,” said she.  “So if——­”

“Be silent!  Do you hear!” I cut her short with such contempt that I saw the painful colour whip her cheeks and her eyes quiver.

Small doubt that what she had learned of men had not sweetened her nor taught her confidence.  But whatever she had been, and whatever she was, after all concerned not me that I should take pains to silence her so brutally.

“I am sorry I spoke as I did,” said I, “—­ however mistaken you are concerning my seeking you here.”

She said nothing.

“Also,” I added, with a sudden resurgance of bitterness that surprised myself, “my conduct earlier in your behalf might have led you to a wiser judgment.”

“I am wise enough—­ after my own fashion,” she said indifferently.

“Does a man save and then return to destroy?”

“Many a hunter has saved many a spotted fawn from wolf and fox—­ so he might kill it himself, one day.”

“You do yourself much flattery, young woman,” I said, so unpleasantly that again the hot colour touched her throat and brow.

“I reason as I have been taught,” she said defiantly.  “Doubtless you are self-instructed.”

“No; men have taught me.  You witnessed, I believe, one lesson.  And your comrade gave me still another.”

“I care to witness nothing,” I said, furious; “far less desire to attempt your education.  Is all plain now?”

“Your words are,” she said, with quiet contempt.

“My words are one with my intention,” said I, angrily; far in spite of my own indifference and contempt, hers was somehow arousing me with its separate sting hidden in every word she uttered.  “And now,” I continued, “all being plain and open between us, let me acquaint you with the sole object of my visit here to you.”

She shrugged her shabby shoulders and waited, her eyes, her expression, her very attitude indifferent, yet dully watchful.

“You know the Sagamore, Mayaro?” I asked.

“You say so.”

“Where is he to be found?” I continued patiently.

“Why do you desire to know?”

The drab was exasperating me, and I think I looked it, for the slightest curl of her sullen lips hinted a scornful smile.