SON OF THE WIND
She had disappeared, she had vanished through the door again, without a word, without a motion of recognition, leaving him only the memory of her gaze that had seemed to appeal to him, to entreat him to tell her that he was safe, that he was unhurt.
He did not very well know what else Rader said to him. His thoughts beat this way and that, boiled up with his exasperations, retreated before the memory of the girl's face, its pity and its panic; bore forward toward success, with all the nature of the man to press them on. He put up the pony in the stable, took off the bandage from his head, and walked back to the house with some vague, surface idea of going up-stairs, cleaning up, getting a bath. The house was still. This time there was no one on the veranda. He walked slowly along to the livingroom door, opened it, went in, with a quickening pulse. No one there. A pair of scissors and a pincushion were upon the table, a thimble on the floor. She had fled. From what? He wondered what she was afraid of. He had not wanted to frighten her. He only wanted to find her. He went out into the hall, that hall of many doors. The late day made it dark, and only by the pale, shining, neutral illumination could he see that one of these doors was half open. He moved it back noiselessly upon its hinge and looked.
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