A minute or two later, Vane swung himself up on to the wharf and strode into the wooden settlement. There were one or two hydraulic mines and a pulp mill in the vicinity, and though the place was by no means populous, a company of third-rate entertainers had arrived some days earlier. On reaching the rude wooden building in which they had given their performance and finding it closed, he accosted a lounger. "What's become of the show?" he asked. "Busted," replied the man. "Didn't take the boys' fancy, and the crowd went out with the stage this afternoon, though I heard that two of the women stayed behind." Vane turned away with a slight sense of compassion. He, however, dismissed the matter from his mind, and having been kneeling in a cramped position in the canoe most of the day, decided to stroll along the waterside before going back to the sloop. Great firs stretched out their sombre branches over the smooth shingle, and now the sun had gone their clean resinous smell was heavy on the dew-cooled air. Here and there brushwood grew among out-cropping rock, and catching sight of what looked like a stripe of woven fabric beneath a brake, he strode towards it. Then he stopped with a start, for a young woman lay with her face hidden from him in an attitude of dejected abandonment. He was about to turn away softly, when she started and looked up at him. Her eyes were wet, but they were of the deep blue he had described to Carroll, and he stood still. "You shouldn't give way like that," he said. It was all he could think of; but he spoke without obtrusive assurance or pronounced embarrassment, and the girl, who shook out her crumpled skirt over one little foot with a swift movement, choked back a sob, and favoured him with a glance of keen scrutiny as she rose to a sitting posture. She was quick at reading character--the life she led had made that necessary--and his manner and appearance were reassuring. She, however, said nothing, and sitting down on a neighbouring boulder, he took out his pipe from force of habit. "Well," he added, in much the same tone as he would have used to a distressed child, "what's the trouble?" She told him, speaking on impulse. "They've gone off and left me. The takings didn't meet expenses." "That's bad," said Vane gravely. "Do you mean they've left you alone?" "No," replied the girl; "in a way it's worse than that. I suppose I could go--somewhere--but there's Mrs. Marvin and Elsie." "The child who danced?" The girl assented, and Vane looked thoughtful. "The three of you stick together," he suggested. "Of course. Mrs. Marvin's the only friend I have." "Then I suppose you've no idea what to do?" His companion confessed it, and explained that it was the cause of her distress and that they had had bad luck of late. Vane could understand that as he looked at her; her dress was shabby, and he fancied she had not been bountifully fed.