There was no occupant of the saloon excepting one, who rose as she entered, hesitating. On the instant a sudden change swept over Dunwody's face. Was it at first assuredness it had borne? "I am glad that you have thus honored me," he said simply. "It is much pleasanter to move about as one may," she answered. "But where is our friend, Captain Carlisle, this morning? Is he ill, or simply unmindful of one so unimportant as myself? I have not heard from him." "He left the boat last night," answered Dunwody gravely, his eyes fixed on her face. "Left the boat--he is gone? Why, he sent me no word, and I thought--at least, he said--" "He has, Madam, like Cataline, evaded, broken forth, absconded. But as to leaving word for you, he was not quite so heartless as all that. I have a message for you." With a word craving permission she opened the message. It was brief. "MY DEAR COUNTESS:" "You will be glad to know that so far as your late jailer is concerned, your captivity is at an end. I am leaving the boat at the next stop, and since that falls in the night-time, I will not disturb you. Senator Dunwody has kindly consented to act as your guardian in my stead, and from your message to him, I judge that in any case you would prefer his care to mine." "My dear Countess, they are not merely idle words when I say to you that you have won my respect and admiration. Be on your guard, and allow me to advise you in the interest of yourself and others to remain--silent." "YOUR OBLIGED AND DUTIFUL SERV'T--" No reasons were urged, no apologies offered. Obviously, the signature was in such circumstances better omitted. The effect of this note, strange to say, was to fill its recipient not with satisfaction, not even with surprise, but with sudden horror. She felt abandoned, forsaken, not pausing to reflect that now she had only what she had demanded of her late companion,--guardian, she now hastily called him, and not jailer. Unconsciously she half-arose, would have left the room. Her soul was filled with an instinctive, unformulated dread. As to Dunwody himself, ruthless and arrogant as was his nature, he bore no trace of imperiousness now. The silent lips and high color of the face before him he did not interpret to mean terror, but contempt. In the fortunes of chance he had won her. In the game of war she was his prisoner. Yet no ancient warrior of old, rude, armored, beweaponed, unrelenting, ever stood more abashed before some high-headed woman captive. He had won--what? Nothing, as he knew very well, beyond the opportunity to fight further for her, and under a far harder handicap, a handicap which he had foolishly imposed on himself. This woman, seen face to face, yes, she was beautiful, desirable, covetable. But she was not the sort of woman he had supposed her. It was Carlisle, after all, who had won in the game!