She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. . She gloried in it: he needed her. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. ” “Call it what you like,” Anna answered. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. "He must be somewhere hereabouts," cried one of the horsemen, dismounting. Her hair, once red, faded to a thin gray that she kept cut into a practical short bob. .
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