himself that the chief actor in a drama possessed a normal rather
than a criminal mind, he found himself in the position of
checkmate. It was a thrilling game. And he was frankly puzzled
now, until--one after another--he added up the sum total of what
had been omitted in this instance of his own personal adventure.
Hidden in her ambush, the woman who had shot him had been in both
purpose and act an assassin. Her determination had been to kill
him. She had disregarded the white flag with which he had pleaded
for mercy. Her marksmanship was of fiendish cleverness. Up to her
last shot she had been, to all intent and purpose, a murderess.

The change had come when she looked down upon him, bleeding and
helpless, in the sand. Undoubtedly she had thought he was dying.
But why, when she saw his eyes open a little later, had she cried
out her gratitude to God? What had worked the sudden
transformation in her? Why had she labored to save the life she
had so atrociously coveted a minute before?

If his assailant had been a man, Carrigan would have found an
answer. For he was not robbed, and therefore robbery was not a
motif. "A case of mistaken identity," he would have told himself.
"An error in visual judgment."

But the fact that in his analysis he was dealing with a woman made
his answer only partly satisfying. He could not disassociate
himself from her eyes--their beauty, their horror, the way they
had looked at him. It was as if a sudden revulsion had come over
her; as if, looking down upon her bleeding handiwork, the woman's
soul in her had revolted, and with that revulsion had come
repentance--repentance and pity.