A mistake, she called it. And she was sorry for him! She had made
those statements in a matter-of-fact way, but with a voice that
was like music. She had spoken perfect English, but in her words
were the inflection and velvety softness of the French blood which
must be running red in her veins. And her name was Jeanne Marie-
Anne Boulain!
With eyes closed, Carrigan called himself an idiot for thinking of
these things at the present time. Primarily he was a man-hunter
out on important duty, and here was duty right at hand, a thousand
miles south of Black Roger Audemard, the wholesale murderer he was
after. He would have sworn on his life that Black Roger had never
gone at a killing more deliberately than this same Jeanne Marie-
Anne Boulain had gone after him behind the rock!
Now that it was all over, and he was alive, she was taking him
somewhere as coolly and as unexcitedly as though they were
returning from a picnic. Carrigan shut his eyes tighter and
wondered if he was thinking straight. He believed he was badly
hurt, but he was as strongly convinced that his mind was clear.
And he lay quietly with his head against the pack, his eyes
closed, waiting for the coolness of the river to drive his nausea
away again.
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