But now, as she listened to the youth’s respectful tones, it suddenly came back to her.  She looked at him with awe-struck eyes.

“Oh, now I know!  You are the new chauffeur; ‘queer name, Hand!’ Yes, I remember—­I remember.”

“What you say is true, Mademoiselle.”

He stood before her, a stubbornly submissive look on his face, as a servant might stand before his betrayed master.  It was as if he had been waiting for that moment, waiting for her anger to fall on him.  But Agatha was speechless at her growing wonder at the trick fate had played them.  Her steady gaze, serious and earnest now, without a hint of the laughter that usually came so easily, dwelt on the young man’s eyes for a moment, then she turned away as if she were giving up a puzzling question.  She looked at James, whose stubbly-bearded face was now quiet against its green pillow, as if seeking a solution there; but she had to fall back, at last, on the youth.

“Do you know who this man is?” she asked irrelevantly.

“No, Mademoiselle.  He was picked up in New York harbor, the night we weighed anchor.  I have not seen him since until to-day.”

“‘The night we weighed anchor!’ What night was that?”

“Last Monday, Mademoiselle; at about six bells.”

“And what day is to-day?”

“Saturday, Mademoiselle; and past four bells now.”

“Monday—­Saturday!” Agatha looked abstractedly down on Jimmy asleep, while upon her mind crowded the memories of that week.  This man who had dragged her and her rescuer from the water, who had made fire and a bed for them, who had got milk for their sustenance, had been almost the last person her conscious eyes had seen in that half-hour of terror on the hillside.  Her next memory, after an untold interval, was the rocking of the ship, an old woman who treated her obsequiously, a man who was her servile attendant and yet her jailer—­but then, suddenly, as she knelt there, mind and body refused their service.  She crumpled down on the soft sand, burying her head in her arms.

Hand came nearer and bent awkwardly over her, as if to coax her confidence.

“It’s all right now, Mademoiselle.  Whatever you think of me, you can trust me to do my best for you now.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of you now,” Agatha moaned in a muffled voice.  “Only I’m so puzzled by it all—­and so tired!”

“’Twas a fearful strain, Mademoiselle.  But I can make you a bed here, so you can sleep.”

Agatha shook her head.  “I can sleep on the sand, just as well.”

“I think, Mademoiselle, I’d better be going above and look for help from the village, as soon as I’ve supplied the fire.  I’ll leave these few matches, too, in case you need them.”

“Yes, you’d better go, Hand; and wait a minute, until I think it out.”  Agatha sat up and pressed her palm to her forehead, straining to put her mind upon the problem at hand.  “Go for a doctor first, Hand; then, if you can, get some food—­bread and meat; and, for pity’s sake, a cloak or long coat of some kind.  Then find out where we are, what the nearest town is, and if a telegraph station is near.  And stay; have you any money?”