She was gone. And he was alone in the
cabin again.
The swiftness of the change in her amazed him. It was as if he had
suddenly touched fire to an explosive. There had been the flare,
but no violence. She had not raised her voice, yet he heard in it
the tremble of an emotion that was consuming her. He had seen the
flame of it in her face and eyes. Something he had said, or had
done, had tremendously upset her, changing in an instant her
attitude toward him. The thought that came to him made his face
burn under its scrub of beard. Did she think he was a scoundrel?
The dropping of his hand, the shock that must have betrayed itself
in his face when she said she was St. Pierre's wife--had those
things warned her against him? The heat went slowly out of his
face. It was impossible. She could not think that of him. It must
have been a sudden giving way under terrific strain. She had
compared herself to Roger Audemard, and she was beginning to
realize her peril--that Bateese was right--that she should have
left him to die in the sand!
The thought pressed itself heavily upon Carrigan. It brought him
suddenly back to a realization of how small a part he had played
in this last half hour in the cabin.
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