He had offered to Pierre's
wife a friendship which he had no right to offer and which she
knew he had no right to offer. He was the Law. And she, like Roger
Audemard, was a criminal. Her quick woman's instinct had told her
there could be no distinction between them, unless there was a
reason. And now Carrigan confessed to himself that there had been
a reason. That reason had come to him with the first glimpse of
her as he lay in the hot sand. He had fought against it in the
canoe; it had mastered him in those thrilling moments when he had
beheld this slim, beautiful creature riding fearlessly into the
boiling waters of the Holy Ghost. Her eyes, her hair, the sweet,
low voice that had been with him in his fever, had become a
definite and unalterable part of him. And this must have shown in
his eyes and face when he dropped his hand--when she told him she
was St. Pierre's wife.
And now she was afraid of him! She was regretting that she had not
left him to die. She had misunderstood what she had seen betraying
itself during those few seconds of his proffered friendship. She
saw only a man whom she had nearly killed, a man who represented
the Law, a man whose power held her in the hollow of his hand.
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