overwhelming desire to investigate a little further kept her dallying.
She had an ardent longing to see the faces of the antagonists. Later she
marvelled at her own temerity, but at the time this overmastering desire
was the only thing she knew.

She came out of the sea, reached her faithful attendant Cinders, slipped
on the mackintosh, and advanced nearer still to the little group of
officers upon the beach, buttoning it mechanically as she went.

Ah, she could see them now! One faced her--a mean-visaged man, fierce,
ferret-like, with glaring eyes and evil mouth. She hated him at sight,
instinctively, without question.

He was thrusting savagely at his opponent, whose back was towards her--a
slim, straight back familiar to her, so familiar that she recognized him
beyond all doubting, no longer needing to see his face. And yet,
involuntarily it seemed, she drew nearer.

He was fencing without impetuosity, yet with a precision that even to her
untrained perception expressed a most deadly concentration. Lithe and
active, supremely confident, he parried his enemy's attack, and the grace
of the man, combined with a certain mastery that was also in a fashion
familiar to her, attracted her irresistibly, held her spellbound. There
was nothing brutal about him, no hint of ferocity, only a finished
antagonism as flawless as his chivalry, a strength of self-suppression
that made him superb.

No one noticed Chris's proximity. All were too deeply engrossed with the
matter in hand. But suddenly Cinders, who loved law and order in all
things pertaining to the human race, scented combat in the air. It was