of this clear-eyed, straight-limbed, courageous young Englishwoman, so wanting in self-consciousness.
And yet … what the deuce was she to this man whom, indisputably, she followed against his wish?
And what conceivable chain of circumstances linked their fortunes with his, and that double burglary of the first night out with this murderous assault of to-night?
Nor was to-night's work, considered by itself, lacking in questionable features.
Why had Thackeray carried that sound arm in a sling? How had its bandages come to be unwrapped? Not in struggles before being placed hors de combat, for he had never had a chance to resist. Had his assailant, then, unwrapped it subsequently? If so, with what end in view?
Why had this Miss Cecelia Brooke, surprising the thug at his work, joined battle with him so bravely and so madly without calling for help?
What hidden motive excused this singular hesitation to summon the surgeon, this reluctance to inform the officers of the ship?
What duplicity was that which the girl had paraded concerning her procrastination when Lanyard had surprised her on her knees out there on the landing?
If this were what Lanyard had first inclined to think it, Secret Service intrigue, surely it was weirdly intricate when an English girl hesitated to safeguard an Englishman by taking into her confidence the officers of a British ship, British manned!
Nevertheless, and however much he might wonder and doubt, Lanyard would never question her. Never of
