Vera looked at him long and steadily. She saw a well-set-up figure with the unmistakable air of good breeding; her eyes traveled slowly up to his face, and paused there, meeting the steady gaze of the somewhat quizzical gray eyes. His hair, slightly silvered at the temples, had a wave in it which suggested that under due provocation it might curl rather attractively, without altering the somewhat grave air of the professional man. Vera held out her hand. “Let me have the card?” she asked. But instead of complying with her request he slipped the card into his vest pocket. “I’ve carried it so long,” he said softly, drawing closer. “Don’t deprive me of the card.” And as Vera caught the wistful appeal in his eyes a hitherto unknown shyness overpowered her, and she stood tongue-tied. Thorne’s next words, however, brought her back to her surroundings with a jump. “Good heavens, Miss Deane!” he exclaimed as he caught a full view of her face and noted the dark shadows under her eyes and her hectic flush. “You must take care of yourself or you will be ill in bed.” “All I need is sleep,” protested Vera, but Thorne shook his head in dissent. “Consult your physician,” he advised, a trifle sternly. “With your training you should know better than to trifle with your health. You are on the point of a nervous breakdown.” Vera smiled. “You exaggerate,” she said, with an attempt to speak lightly. “I do not need medical attendance. The fresh air this afternoon has done me good, and now,” moving forward to the edge of the rock, “I must return and catch a few hours’ sleep before going on duty.” Without a word, but with his jaw set at an obstinate angle, Thorne scrambled down the rock, then turned back to assist Vera, only to find her at his elbow. She smiled up at him, slightly breathless from her exertions. Her face was dangerously close, and as Thorne looked deep into her lovely eyes his pulse lost a beat, then raced on. Hardly conscious of his action he clasped her hand in his. “Vera--Miss Deane,” he stammered, and his voice shook with feeling. “What madness led you to become so entangled in Bruce Brainard’s murder?” Vera drew back as if struck, and jerked her hand free. “_You_ are mad!” she retorted vehemently. “I am in no way concerned in the tragedy.” There was an instant’s pause, then Thorne picked up his witch-hazel stick and stood aside, balancing it in his fingers. With a slight inclination of her head Vera turned to leave him, but she had gone but a few steps when he overtook her. “I seem always to give offense,” he said despairingly. “I’m an unlucky devil; never could express myself properly where I feel the most. Just now, Miss Deane, I only meant--” A pause followed as he sought the word he wanted. Vera’s sidelong glance convinced her that he appeared as perturbed as his speech implied. “I only meant to offer my services.” “As a physician?” He flushed at her tone. “Yes, should you require medical attendance.”