“What gloves?  Oh, those white abominations?  Why on earth do you wear them?” Her glance fell upon his right hand, which lay half-open beside him.  “Oh—­oh—­oh!” she cried in a rising scale of distress.  “What have you done to your hands?”

He reddened perceptibly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, indeed!  Tell me at once!”

“I’ve been rowing.”

“Where to?”

“Oh, out to a ship.”

“There aren’t any ships, except the Dutch warship.  Was it to her?”

“Yes.”

“To carry our message—­my message?”

He squirmed.

“I’m awfully sleepy,” he protested.  “It isn’t fair to cross-examine a witness—­”

“When was it?” his ruthless interrogator broke in.

“Night before last.”

“How far?”

“How can I tell?  Not far.  A few miles.”

“And back.  And it took you all night,” she accused.

“What if it did?” he cried peevishly.  “A man’s got to have some relief from work, hasn’t he?  It was livelier than sitting all night with one’s eye glued to a microscope barrel!”

“Oh, beetle man, beetle man!  I don’t know about you at all.  What kind of a strange queer creature are you?  Have you wings, Mr. Beetle Man?”

Suddenly she bent over and laid her soft lips upon the scarified palm.  The Unspeakable Perk sat up, with a half-cry.

“Now the other one,” said the girl.  Her face was a mantle of rose-color, but her eyes shone.

“I won’t!  You shan’t!”

“The other one!” she commanded imperiously.

“Please, Miss Brewster—­”

A noise at the door saved him.  There stood Thatcher Brewster, magnate, multi-millionaire, and master of men, a huge tray in his hands.

“Beefsteak, fried potatoes, alligator pear, fresh bread, real butter, coffee, and cake,” he proclaimed jovially.  “Not to mention a cocktail, which I compounded with my own skilled hands.  Are you ready, my boy?  Go!”

The Unspeakable Perk leaped from his couch.

“Food!” he cried.  “Real American food!  The perfume of it is a square meal.”

“You’re much gladder to see it than you were me,” pouted Miss Polly.

“I’m not half as afraid of it,” he admitted.  “Mr. Brewster, your health.”

“Here’s to you, my boy.  Now I’ll leave you with your nurse, and make my final arrangements.  We’re off by special in the morning.”

“That’s fine!” said the scientist.

But Miss Polly Brewster caught the turn of his head in her direction, and saw that his fork had slackened in his hand.  Something tightened around her heart.

As he went, her father considered her for a moment, and wondered.  Never before had he seen such a look in her eyes as that which she had turned on the queer, vivid stranger so busily engaged at the tray.  Polly, and this obscure scientist!  After the kind of men whom the girl had known, enslaved, and eluded!  Absurd!  Yet if it were to be—­Mr. Brewster reviewed the events of the afternoon—­ well, it might be worse.