Here." She put her
left hand tenderly to her head.
Banneker, leaning over her, only half suppressed a cry. Back of the
temple rose a great, puffed, leaden-blue wale.
"Sit still," he said. "I'll fix it."
While he busied himself heating water, getting out clean bandages and
gauze, she leaned back with half-closed eyes in which there was neither
fear nor wonder nor curiosity: only a still content. Banneker washed the
wound very carefully.
"Does it hurt?" he asked.
"My head feels queer. Inside."
"I think the hair ought to be cut away around the place. Right here.
It's quite raw."
It was glorious hair. Not black, as Cressey had described it in his
hasty sketch of the unknown I.O.W.; too alive with gleams and glints of
luster for that. Nor were her eyes black, but rather of a deep-hued,
clouded hazel, showing troubled shadows between their dark-lashed, heavy
lids. Yet Banneker made no doubt but that this was the missing girl of
Cressey's inquiry.
"May I?" he said.
"Cut my hair?" she asked. "Oh, no!"
"Just a little, in one place. I think I can do it so that it won't show.
There's so much of it."
"Please," she answered, yielding.
He was deft. She sat quiet and soothed under his ministerings.
Completed, the bandage looked not too unworkmanlike, and was cool and
comforting to the hot throb of the wound.
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