Mad thoughts
began to surge up in him.
But an exclamation from Helena checked them:
"I say!--there's something here--in the seat."
Her hand groped near his. She withdrew it excitedly.
"It's a scarf, or a bag, or something. Let's take it to the light. Your
woman, Geoffrey!"
She scrambled down, and he followed her unwillingly, the blood racing
through his veins. But he must needs help her again through the
close-grown branches, and into the boat.
She peered at the soft thing she held in her hand.
"It's a bag, a little silk bag. And there's something in it! Light a
match, Geoffrey."
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and obeyed her. Their two heads
stooped together over the bag. Helena drew out a handkerchief--torn, with
a lace edging.
"That's not a village woman's handkerchief!" she said, wondering. "And
there are initials!"
He struck another match, and they distinguished something like F.M. very
finely embroidered in the corner of the handkerchief. The match went out,
and Helena put the handkerchief back into the bag, which she examined in
the now full moonlight, as they drifted out of the shadow.
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