At
first Carrigan allowed this to filter between his fingers; then he
opened his eyes. He felt more evenly balanced again.
Straight in front of him was Jeanne Marie-Anne Boulain. The
curtain of dusk had risen from between them, and she was full in
the radiance of the moon. She was no longer paddling, but was
looking straight ahead. To Cardigan her figure was exquisitely
girlish as he saw it now. She was bareheaded, as he had seen tier
first, and her hair hung down her back like a shimmering mass of
velvety sable in the star-and-moon glow. Something told Carrigan
she was going to turn her face in his direction, and he dropped
his hand over his eyes again, leaving a space between the fingers.
He was right in his guess. She fronted the moon, looking at him
closely--rather anxiously, he thought. She even leaned a little
toward him that she might see more clearly. Then she turned and
resumed her paddling.
Carrigan was a bit elated. Probably she had looked at him a number
of times like that during the past half-hour. And she was
disturbed. She was worrying about him. The thought of being a
murderess was beginning to frighten her. In spite of the beauty of
her eyes and hair and the slim witchery of her body he had no
sympathy for her.
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