"Not after the first. After they had described you, I knew that they
were looking for the wrong man, and then I felt all right. I didn't
know--poor Hugh!--how cold and cramped you were. What a shame that
you took a false alarm and hid yourself! I don't believe there would
have been a bit of danger if you'd stayed out. They'd never even heard
of you, I suppose."

Her talk, so gay, so strangely at cross-purposes with reality, was
like a vivifying wine to him. The color came back into his face; a
wild sort of relief lighted his eyes.

"Then it didn't occur to you, Sylvie, that that brute might have been
me--that the men might, after all, have been describing me--eh?" he
asked, risking all his hope on one throw.

She laughed, and, lifting herself a little in his arms, touched her
soft mouth to his. "But, Hugh, you told me your story, don't you
remember? And it is gloriously, mercifully different from
Rutherford's."

He put his chin on his fist and stared over her head into the fire.
She felt the slackening of his embrace and searched his arms with
questioning fingers. "Why are you cross, Hugh? Did I say anything
to hurt you? Let's forget Ham Rutherford. I wonder where he is, poor,
horrible wretch!"

"Dead--dead--dead," Hugh muttered. "Dead and buried--or he ought to
be. O God!" he groaned, and crushed her close against him; "I can't
ask you to love me, Sylvie--to marry me. Now you know what it is like