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“They are great iron teeth,” she gasped, “fastened in my hand. Can you open them?”

“Don’t move!” he ordered, as he dropped down beside her.

It was a poacher’s trap, fortunately of a species with which he was acquainted. Her hand was fairly gripped between the iron jaws. He wondered with a set face if those cruel teeth had met in her delicate flesh.

She screamed as he forced it open, and fell back shuddering, half-fainting, while he lifted her torn hand and examined it in the failing light.

It was bleeding freely, but not violently, and he saw with relief that the larger veins had escaped. He wrapped his handkerchief round it, and spoke:

“Come!” he said. “My house is close by. It had better be bathed at once.”

“Yes,” she assented shakily.

“Don’t cry!” he said, with blunt kindliness.

“I can’t help it,” whispered Cynthia.

He helped her to her feet, but she trembled so much that he put his arm about her.

“It’s only a stone’s throw away,” he said.

She went with him without question. She seemed dazed with pain.

Silently he led her down to his dark abode.

“I’m giving you a lot of trouble,” she murmured, as they entered.

To which he made gruff reply:

“It’s worse for you than for me!”

He put her into an easy chair, lighted a lamp, and departed for a basin of water.

When he returned, she had so far mastered herself as to be able to smile at him through her tears.

“I know I’m a drivelling idiot to cry!” she said, her voice high and tremulous. “But I never felt so sick before!”

“Don’t apologise,” said West briefly. “I know.”

He bathed the injury with the utmost tenderness, while she sat and watched his stern face.

“My!” she said suddenly, with a little, shaky laugh. “You are being very good to me, but why do you frown like that?”

He glanced at her with those piercing eyes of his.

“How did you do it?”

The colour came into her white face.

“I–was trying to spring the trap,” she said, eyeing him doubtfully. “I didn’t like to think of one of those cute little rabbits getting caught.”

“Yes, but how did you manage to get your hand in the way?” said West.

She considered this problem for a little.

“I guess I can’t explain that mystery to you,” she said, at length. “You see, I’m only a woman, and women often do things that are very foolish.”

West’s silence seemed to express tacit agreement with this assertion.

“Anyway,” she resumed, making a wry face, “it’s done. You are not vexed because I made such a fuss?”

There was an odd wistfulness in her tone. West, busy bandaging, did not raise his eyes.

“I don’t blame you for that,” he said. “It must have hurt you infernally! If you take my advice, you will show it to a doctor.”

She screwed her face up a second time.

“To please you, Mr. West?”

“No,” he responded curtly. “As a sensible precaution.”

“And if I don’t happen to be remarkable for sense?” she suggested.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Yes, I know,” said Cynthia. “You say that to everything. It’s getting rather monotonous. And I’m sure I’m very patient. You’ll grant me that, at least?”

He turned his ice-blue eyes upon her.

“I am not good at paying compliments, Miss Mortimer,” he said cynically. “Twelve years in prison have rusted all my little accomplishments.”

She met his look with a smile, though her lips were quivering still.

“My! What a pity!” she said. “Has your heart got rusty, too?”

“Very,” said West shortly.

“Can’t you rub it off?” she questioned.

He uttered his ironic laugh.

“There wouldn’t be anything left if I did.”

“No?” she said whimsically. “Well, give it to me, and let me see what I can do!”

His eyes fell away from her, and the grim line of his jaw hardened perceptibly.

“That would be too hard a job even for you!” he said.

She rose and put out her free hand to him. Her eyes were very soft and womanly. A quaint little smile yet hovered about her lips.