"I'm the station-agent
here. You must come in out of the wet."
"Very well."
He tossed an overcoat on over his pajamas, ran to the door and swung it
open. The tiny ray of light advanced, hesitated, advanced again. She
walked into the shack, and immediately the rain burst again upon the
outer world. Banneker's fleeting impression was of a vivid but dimmed
beauty. He pushed forward a chair, found a blanket for her feet, lighted
the "Quick-heater" oil-stove on which he did his cooking. She followed
him with her eyes, deeply glowing but vague and troubled.
"This is not a station," she said.
"No. It's my shack. Are you cold?"
"Not very." She shivered a little.
"You say that some one hurt you?"
"Yes. They struck me. It made my head feel queer."
A murderous fury surged into his brain. His hand twitched toward his
revolver.
"The hoboes," he whispered under his breath. "But they didn't rob you,"
he said aloud, looking at the jeweled hand.
"No. I don't think so. I ran away."
"Where was it?"
"On the train."
Enlightenment burst upon him. "You're sure--" he began. Then, "Tell me
all you can about it."
"I don't remember anything. I was in my stateroom in the car. The door
was open. Some one must have come in and struck me.
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