shoulders in little waves that were most alluring. It seemed a
pity to twist it up again, but when I suggested this, cautiously,
she said it was troublesome and got in her eyes when it was loose.
So she gathered it up, while I held a row of little shell combs
and pins, and when it was done it was vastly becoming, too. Funny
about hair: a man never knows he has it until he begins to lose it,
but it's different with a girl. Something of the unconventional
situation began to dawn on her as she put in the last hair-pin and
patted some stray locks to place.

"I have not told you my name," she said abruptly. "I forgot that
because I know who you are, you know nothing about me. I am Alison
West, and my home is in Richmond."

So that was it! This was the girl of the photograph on John
Gilmore's bedside table. The girl McKnight expected to see in
Richmond the next day, Sunday! She was on her way back to meet him!
Well, what difference did it make, anyhow? We had been thrown
together by the merest chance. In an hour or two at the most we
would be back in civilization and she would recall me, if she
remembered me at all, as an unshaven creature in a red cravat and
tan shoes, with a soiled Pullman sheet tied around my neck. I drew
a deep breath.

"Just a twinge," I said, when she glanced up quickly. "It's very
good of you to let me know, Miss West. I have been hearing
delightful things about you for three months."

"From Richey McKnight?" She was frankly curious.