And then abruptly the noise of a bark snapped the silence. The collie was returning along the sands. He turned over on his elbow and swept the beach with his eyes, eyes in which a quickening interest vied with the hard bitterness of resentful anger. He wanted to see the girl again, the girl who had looked at him in wondering amaze that he could find no better pastime than card playing in the sunlight. She had disapproved of his occupation; he had read that in her look; he had also seen the interest that flashed to the surface and drenched the wonder and the disapproval in the dark eyes. "Here's that brute of a dog again!" Holman said. The complaint was allowed to pass without comment; the indolent figure reclining on the sand remained motionless, waiting for the reappearance of the girl. She came into sight presently, still stooping for, and throwing, the stick at intervals; though her response to the dog's insistence was not so ready as it had been, and her movements were listless, conveying an impression of fatigue. As the girl showed greater indifference for the game, the collie grew more eager. When by its barking it failed to rouse her to greater activity, it pulled at her dress, rushing in and snapping at her skirt excitedly. The man sprawling on the sands looked on. The dog, he decided, was a nuisance. It was boisterous in common with its breed. It scarcely surprised him when from the water's edge he heard a girl's scream. In one of its wild rushes the dog had caught her leg in its teeth. With amazing swiftness he was on his feet. "The brute's bitten her!" he exclaimed. "Serve her right," the other responded, "for letting it make itself a nuisance." If he heard the callous remark, Guy Matheson paid no heed to it. In a few rapid strides he reached the girl's side. Holman looked after him; looked from him to the cards lying where they had been thrown down on the sands; looked from the cards to the two figures by the sea shore; and, reflecting on the unlikelihood of his friend's return, he slipped the cards into his pocket and left the beach. CHAPTER TWO. The girl faced about at the sound of Matheson's approach. She was vainly attempting to ward off the dog's exuberant attacks, which Matheson quelled promptly with the effective argument of force. She looked from him to the collie as it ran howling behind her, and her eyes rebuked the man's roughness. "He did not intend to hurt," she said. "He is always like that when he grows excited; one has to keep him off with a stick; but I forgot." "I am afraid he bit you," he said. "Yes. But it isn't much, I think. I'll go back and bathe it. I am staying quite close." "A dog's bite can be a nasty thing, particularly in this country," he said. "I wish you would let me have a look at it." She flushed brightly, and asked: "Are you a doctor?"