Then I'll get back to my own den and
have a sleep."
"You can sleep here," Burke said unexpectedly. "No one will
disturb you. Sylvia never sits here in the afternoon."
Again Sylvia saw that strange look in Guy's eyes, a swift intent
glance and then the instant falling of the lids.
"You're very--kind," said Guy. "But I think I'll get back to my
own quarters all the same."
Impulsively Sylvia intervened. "Oh, Guy, please,--don't go back to
that horrible little shanty on the sand! I got a room all ready
for you yesterday--if you will only use it."
He turned to her. For a second his look was upon her also, and it
seemed to her in that moment that she and Burke had united cruelly
to bait some desperate animal. It sent such a shock through her
that she shrank in spite of herself.
And then for the first time she heard Guy laugh, and it was a sound
more dreadful than his cough had been, a catching, painful sound
that was more like a cry--the hunger-cry of a prowling beast of the
desert.
He got up as he uttered it, and stretched his arms above his head.
She saw that his hands were clenched.
"Oh, don't overdo it, I say!" he begged. "Hospitality is all very
well, but it can be carried too far. Ask Burke if it can't!
Besides, two's company and three's the deuce. So I'll be
going--and many thanks!"
He was gone with the words, snatching his hat from a chair where he
had thrown it, and departing into the glare of the desert with
never a backward glance.
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