Roger Sands had steel-gray eyes, a straight black line of brows drawn low and nearlymeeting above them, thick black hair lightly powdered with silver at the temples, and aclean-shaven, aggressive chin. He had the air of being hard as nails. Most people, includingwomen, thought him hard as nails. He thought it of himself, and gloried in his armour, never more than on a certain September day, when resting in the Santa Fé Limited, tearingback to New York after a giant's tussle in California. But-it was hot weather, and he hadleft the stateroom door open. Everything that followed came-from this.Suddenly he became conscious of a perfume, and saw a woman hovering, rather thanstanding, at the door. At his look she started away, then stopped."Oh, do help me!" she said.She was young and very beautiful. He couldn't stare quite as coldly as he ought."What can I do for you?" was the question he asked.He had hardly opened his mouth before she flashed into the stateroom and shut the door."There's a man.... I'm afraid!"Though she was young and girlish, and spoke impulsively, there was something oddly regalabout her. Princesses and girl-queens ought to be of her type; tall and very slim, withgracious, sloping shoulders and a long throat, the chin slightly lifted: pale, with greatappealing violet eyes under haughty brows, and quantities of yellow-brown hair dressed insome sort of Madonna style.