Thenose of the setter quivered and, going to the window, he growled.
"He does hear something," asserted Sylvia. "What do you suppose it is?"
"Gulls, most likely. They circle above the house in clouds," was Marcia's careless answer. "The Prince regards them as his natural enemies. He delights to chase them up the beach and send them whirling into the air. Apparently he resents their chatter. He seems to think they are talking about him—and they may be for aught I know—talking about all of us."
A faint echo of her recent irritation still lingered in the tone and, conscious of it, she laughed to conceal it.
Again the dog growled.
Almost immediately a hand fumbled with the latch, and as the door swung open, a man staggered blindly into the room.
He was hatless, wet to the skin, and shivering with cold, and before Marcia could reach his side, he lurched forward and fell at her feet.
"Quick, Sylvia, close the door and heat some broth. The poor fellow is exhausted. He's chilled to the bone."
"Who is it?"
"No one I know—a stranger. Bring that pillow and help me to slip it under his head. We'll let him rest where he is a moment."
Her fingers moved to the bronzed wrist.
"He's all right," she whispered. "Just cold and worn out. He'll be himself presently."
She swept the matted hair, lightly sprinkled with grey, from the man's forehead and wiped his face.
An interesting face it was—intelligent and highbred, with well-cut features and a firm, determined chin.
A sweater of blue wool, a blue serge suit, socks of tan and sport shoes to match them clung to the tall, slender figure, and on the hand lying across it sparkled a diamond sunk in a band of wrought gold.
It was not the hand of a fisherman, tanned though it was; nor yet that of a sailor. There could be no doubt about that. Rather, it belonged to a scholar, a writer, a painter, or possibly to a physician, for it was strong as well as beautifully formed.
Sylvia bent to adjust the pillow, and her eyes and Marcia's met.
Who was this man?
Whence came he?
What disaster had laid him here helpless before them?
As if their questions penetrated his consciousness,the stranger slowly opened his eyes.
"Sorry to come here like this," he murmured. "The fog was so thick, I lost my bearings and my power-boat ran aground. I've been trying hours to get her off. She's hard and fast on your sand-bar."
"Not on the ocean side?" Marcia exclaimed.
The man shook his head.
"Luckily not. I rounded the point all right, but missed the channel."
He struggled to rise and Marcia, kneeling beside him, helped him into an upright position where he sat, leaning against her shoulder.
"I seem to have brought in about half the sea with me," he apologized, looking about in vague, half-dazed fashion.
"No matter. We're used to salt water here," she answered. "How do you feel? You're not hurt?"
"Only a little. Nothing much. I've done something queer to my wrist."
Attempting to move it, he winced.
"It isn't broken?"
"I don't know. I was trying to push the boat off, and something suddenly gave way."
Turning his head aside, he bit his lip as if in pain.
"We'll telephone Doctor Stetson. The town is fortunate in having a very good physician. Meantime, you mustn't remain in these wet clothes. There is no surer way of catching cold. Do you think youcould get upstairs if Sylvia and I guided you?"
"I guess so—if it isn't far. I'm absurdly dizzy. I don't know why. I suppose, though, I must shed these wet togs."
"You certainly must. Come, Sylvia, lend a hand! We'll help him up."
"Oh, I'm not in such a bad way as all that. I can get up alone," he protested. "Only please wait just another minute. The whole place has suddenly begun to pitch again like a ship in midocean. Either I've lost my sea-legs or I'm all sea-legs, and nothing else. Perhaps I may be faint. I haven't eaten anything for a day or two."
"Why didn't you tell me? The soup, quick, Sylvia. I only wish I had some brandy. Well, at least this is hot, and will warm you up. I'll feed you."
"No, no. I needn't trouble you to do that. I'm sure I can manage with my left hand."
"Don't be silly. You'll spill it all over yourself. Goodness knows, you're wet enough as it is. Hand me the cup and spoon, Sylvia."
"But I feel like a baby," fretted the stranger.
"No matter. We must get something hot inside you right away. Don't fuss about how it's done," said the practical-minded Marcia. "There! You look better already! Later you shall have a real, honest-to-goodness meal. Run and call Doctor Stetson, Sylvia, and open the bed in the room oppositemine. You might light the heater there, too."
As the girl sped away, Marcia turned toward her visitor.
"Suppose we try to make the rocking-chair now. Shall we? We won't aspire to going upstairs until the doctor comes. You're not quite good for that yet. But at least you needn't sit on the floor. What worries me is your wet clothing. I'm afraid you'll take your death of cold. Let me peel off your shoes and socks. I can do that. And I believe I could get you out of your water-soaked sweater if I were to cut the sleeve. May I try? We needn't mind wrecking it, for I have another I can give you."
The man did not answer.
Instead, he sat tense and unsmiling, his penetrating brown eyes fixed on Marcia's face. Apparently the scrutiny crystalized in him some swift resolution, for after letting his glance travel about the room to convince himself that no one was within hearing, he leaned forward:
"There is something else I'd rather you did for me first," he whispered, dropping his voice until it became almost inaudible. "I've a package here I wish you'd take charge of. It's inside my shirt. But for this infernal wrist, I could reach it."
"I'll get it."
"I'd rather you didn't talk about it," continuedhe, hurriedly. "Just put it in a safe place. Will you, please?"
"Certainly."
Puzzled, but unquestioning, Marcia thrust her hand beneath his sodden clothing and drew forth a small, flat box, wrapped in a bedraggled handkerchief.
"If you'll look out for it, I'll be tremendously obliged."
"Of course I will," smiled Marcia. "Is it valuable?"
The question, prompted by a desire to perform faithfully the service entrusted to her, rather than by curiosity, produced a disconcerting result.
The man's eyes fell.
"I shouldn't like to—to lose it," he stammered.
"I'll be careful. You yourself shall see where it is put. Look! Here is my pet hiding-place. This brick in the hearth is loose and under it is plenty of space for this small box. I'll tuck it in there. Just hold it a second until I pry the brick up. There we are! Now give it to me."
She reached hurriedly for the package, but as their hands met, the moist, clinging handkerchief became entangled in their fingers and slipping from its coverings a leather jewel-case dropped to the floor.
Out of it rolled a flashing necklace and a confusion of smaller gems.
Marcia stifled an involuntary cry.
Nevertheless, she neither looked up nor delayed.
"Sorry to be so clumsy," she muttered, as she swiftly scooped up the jewels.
It was well she had made haste, for no sooner was the clasp on the box snapped and the treasure concealed beneath the floor than Sylvia returned, and a moment later came both Doctor Jared Stetson and Elisha Winslow.
"Mornin', Marcia," nodded the doctor. "'Lish happened to be in the office when your niece called up, an' hearin' you had a man patient, he thought mebbe he might be of use. What 'pears to be the trouble, sir?"
"I've done something to my right wrist."
"H—m—m! Keepin' your diagnosis private, I see. That's wise. A wrist can be broken, fractured, dislocated, or just plain sprained an' still pain like the deuce." With skilled hand, he pushed back the dripping sleeve.
"You're a mite water-logged, I notice," observed he. "Been overboard?"
"Something of the sort," returned the man with the flicker of a smile.
"Mr.—" for the fraction of a second, Marcia hesitated; then continued in an even tone, "—Mr. Carlton grounded his boat and had to swim ashore."
"You don't say! Well, I ain't surprised. 'Tain't no day to be afloat. You couldn't cut this fog with acarvin'-knife. But for knowin' the channel well's I do, I might 'a' been aground myself. How come you to take your boat out in such weather?" the doctor demanded.
"I was—was cruising."
"Oh, an' the fog shut down on you. I see. That's different. Fog has a trick of doin' that, unless one keeps an eye out for fog symptoms. Now, what I'd recommend for you first of all, Mr. Carlton, is a warm bed. You look clean beat out. Had an anxious, tiresome trip, I'll wager."
"Yes."
"I 'magined as much. Well, you can rest here. There'll be nothin' to disturb your slumbers. We sell quiet by the square yard in Wilton."
A kindly chuckle accompanied the words.
"Better let 'Lish an' me help you upstairs, an' out of your wet things, 'cause with a wrist such as yours, I figger you won't be very handy at buttons. Not that 'Lish is a professional lady's maid. That ain't exactly his callin'. Still, in spite of bein' town sheriff, he can turn his hand to other things. It's lucky he can, too, for he don't get much sheriffin' down this way. Wilton doesn't go in for crime. In fact, we was laughin' 'bout that very thing this noon at the post-office. 'Pears there's been a robbery at one of the Long Island estates. Quantities of jewelry taken, an' no trace of the thief. The alarm was sent outover the radio early yesterday an' listenin' in 'Lish, here, got quite het up an' not a little envious. He said he 'most wished the burglary had took place in our town, excitement bein' at a pretty low ebb now."
"Zenas Henry suggested mebbe we might hire an up-to-date robber, was we to advertise," put in the sheriff, "but on thinkin' it over, we decided the scheme wouldn't work, 'cause of there bein' nothin' in the village worth stealin'." He laughed.
Marcia, standing by the stove, spun about.
"Now, Elisha, don't you run down Wilton. Why, I have twenty-five dollars in my purse this minute," she asserted, taking a worn pocket-book from her dress and slapping it with challenging candor down upon the table. "I keep it in that china box above the stove."
"That might serve as a starter," remarked the stranger, regarding her quizzically.
She faced him, chin drawn in, and head high and defiant.
"Besides that, in my top bureau drawer is a string of gold beads that belonged to my great-grandmother," she continued, daring laughter curling her lips. "They are very old and are really quite valuable."
"We'll make a note of those, too," nodded the man, his eyes on hers.
"I'm afraid that's all I can offer in the way of burglary inducements."
"That bein' the case, s'pose you an' me start gettin' the patient upstairs, 'Lish," broke in Doctor Stetson. "If we don't, next we know he'll be havin' pneumonia as well as a bad wrist. Besides, I want to get a good look at that wrist. Mebbe 'tain't goin' to be bad as it 'pears."
The stranger's admiring glance fixed itself on Marcia's.
"What is my next move?" he inquired.
"I told you before—you must take off your wet things and rest," she repeated.
"You still prescribe that treatment?"
"I still prescribe it."
"In spite of the—the symptoms?"
"Why not?" was her quick answer.
"Very well. I am ready, gentlemen." Erect, even with a hint of defiance in his mocking smile, the man rose to his full height. "Before we go, however, I must correct a slight error. You misunderstood my name. It is not Carlton. It is Heath—Stanley Heath."
"Andyet you told me, Marcia, this was a quiet, adventureless place!" burst out Sylvia, the instant the door had closed.
"Isn't it?"
"It doesn't seem so to me. When shipwrecked mariners fall into your arms entirely without warning, I call it thrilling. Who do you suppose he is?"
"He told us his name."
"Of course—Heath. Stanley Heath. It's quite a romantic name, too. But I didn't mean that. I mean where did he come from and why? Didn't he tell you?"
"Not a word."
Obviously the girl was disappointed.
"I thought perhaps he might have while I was upstairs. I was gone long enough for him to pour out to you his entire history. At least it seemed so to me. I ransacked every closet and drawer in sight trying to find something for him to put on. It wasn't until I struck that old sea-chest in the hall that I discovered pajamas and underwear. I hope you don't mind my taking them."
A shiver passed over Marcia.
"No. They were Jason's. I ought to have told you they were there. I kept them because I thoughtthey might sometime be useful."
"Well, they certainly are," replied Sylvia. "They will exactly fit Mr. Heath. He must be lots like Uncle Jason."
"He isn't," contradicted Marcia sharply. "He isn't at all like him."
"In size, I mean," amended Sylvia, timidly.
"Oh, in size. Possibly. I haven't thought about it," came tersely from Marcia. "Let me see! We planned to have lobster this noon, didn't we? But that won't do for him. He will need something more substantial."
"There are chops," suggested Sylvia, following to the door.
"So there are!" Marcia brightened. "I'd forgotten that. We have had such a confusing morning—" absently she reached for the plates.
"Shall I put some potatoes in the oven?"
"What?"
"Potatoes. Shall I put some in the oven? For him, I mean."
"Oh, yes—yes. Of course. Chops and—" regarding the girl vaguely, Marcia fingered the dishes in her hand.
"And baked potatoes," Sylvia repeated, a trifle sharply.
"Yes. Chops and baked potatoes," echoed Marcia, dragging her mind with an effort from thethoughts she was pursuing. "That will do nicely. And hot tea."
"Won't tea keep him awake?"
"I don't believe anything could keep him awake."
Marcia was herself now and smiled.
"Where do you suppose he came from? And how long has he been knocking about in that boat, I wonder," ventured Sylvia, her curiosity once again flaring up.
"How do I know, dear?" Marcia sighed, as if determined to control her patience. "You know as much about him as I do. I mean," she corrected, honesty forcing her to amend the assertion, "almost as much. I did, to be sure, talk with him a little while waiting for the doctor, but he did not tell me anything about himself."
"One would never suspect you were such a matter-of-fact, unimaginative person, Marcia," laughed Sylvia, "Now I am much more romantic. I am curious—just plain, commonplace curious—and I don't mind admitting it."
Again Marcia's conscience triumphed.
"I am curious, too," she confessed. "Only perhaps in a different way."
The moving of chairs overhead and the sound of feet creaking down the stairway heralded the return of Jared Stetson and Elisha.
She went to meet them.
"'Tain't a broken wrist, Marcia," was the doctor's greeting on entering the kitchen. "Leastways, I don't think it is. I've bandaged it an' 'Lish an' me have your friend snug an' warm in bed. Tomorrow I'll look in again. Mebbe with daylight, I'll decide to whisk him down to the Hyannis Hospital for an X-ray just to make sure everything's O.K. There's no use takin' chances with a thing so useful to a feller as his wrist. But for tonight, the bandage will do. A hot water-bottle mightn't be amiss. Nor a square meal, neither. Beyond them two things, there ain't much you can do at present, but let him sleep."
"We were starting to broil some chops."
"Fine!" Doctor Stetson rubbed his hands. "Nothin' better. He was a mite fretted 'bout the boat; but I told him some of us men would ease her up 'fore dark an' see she was anchored good an' firm. There's a chance she'll float at high tide, I wouldn't wonder—that is if she ain't stuck too firm. The Life-Savin' crew will lend us a hand, I reckon. Cap'n Austin an' the boys have been itchin' for a job. Anyhow, I told Mr. Heath to quit troublin' 'bout his ship an' go to sleep, an' he promised he would. Seems a nice sort of feller. Known him long?"
"Not so very long."
"Why, Marcia—" broke in Sylvia.
"One sometimes comes to know a person rather well, though, even in a short time," went on the older woman, ignoring the interruption.
"S'pose 'twas a-comin' to see you that brought him down this way," Elisha volunteered. "Somehow I don't recall meetin' him before."
"He hasn't been here before," was the measured response.
"Oh, so he's new to Wilton waters, eh? That prob'ly accounts for his runnin' aground. I was certain I'd 'a' remembered his face had I seen it. I'm kinder good at faces," declared the sheriff. "Fine lookin' chap. Has quite an air to him. Nothin' cheap 'bout his clothes, neither. They was A1 quality clear through to his skin. Silk, with monograms on 'em. Must be a man of means."
Silence greeted the observation.
"Likely he is—havin' a power-boat an' leisure to cruise round in her," persisted the undaunted Elisha.
"I really couldn't say."
"Well, apparently he ain't one that boasts of his possessions, an' that's to his credit," interposed Jared Stetson good-humoredly.
Elisha's interest in the stranger was not, however, to be so easily diverted.
"Seen the boat?" he inquired.
"No."
"Oh, you ain't! I forgot to ask Heath the nameof her. I'm sort of a crank on the names of boats. It always riles me to have a foolish name given a boat. No matter how small she is, her plankin' is all that divides her owner from fathoms of water, an' in view of the fact he'd oughter regard her soberly an' give her a decent name."
Elisha stroked his chin, rough with the stubble of a reddish beard.
"Years ago," he continued, "folks stood in awe of ships an' understood better what they owed 'em. In them days there warn't no wireless, nor no big ocean liners an' a man that sailed the deep warn't so hail-feller-well-met with the sea. It put the fear of God into him. When he started out on a cruise across the Atlantic or round the Horn, there warn't no slappin' his ship on the back. He respected her an' named her accordin'ly.The Flyin' Cloud!Can you beat that? OrSovereign of the Seas? Them names meant somethin'. They made you want to lift your hat to the lady. But now—! Why, last season a feller come into the harbor with as pretty a knockabout as you'd want to see. Small though she was, every line of her was of the quality. A reg'lar little queen she was. An' what do you s'pose that smart aleck had christened her? TheAh-there! Thought himself funny, no doubt. 'Twould 'a' served him right had she capsized under him some day when he was well out of sight of land an' lefthim to swim ashore. Yes-siree, it would. If a man has no more regard for the keel that's under him an' the floorin' that's 'twixt him an' forty fathoms of water than that he deserves to drown an' I wouldn't care the flip of a cod's tail if he did," Elisha blustered.
"Oh, come now, 'Lish—you know you wouldn't stand by an' see no feller drown, no matter what kind of a fool he was," laughed the doctor.
"Yes, I would," Elisha insisted, tugging on his coat.
"Well, all I can say is I hope the name of Mr. Heath's boat will meet with your approval," ventured Sylvia archly.
"I hope 'twill," was the glum retort, as the sheriff followed Doctor Stetson through the doorway.
The moment the door banged behind them, Sylvia turned toward Marcia.
"Forgive my butting in, dear," apologized she. "But I was so surprised. You did say you didn't know Mr. Heath, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"But—but—"
"Sometimes it's just as well not to tell all you know—especially in a place like this," was the evasive response.
Was the reply a rebuke or merely a caution?
Sylvia did not know.
And what was the meaning of the rose color that flooded the elder woman's cheek?
Had Marcia really meant to give the impression that she knew Stanley Heath? And if so, why?
Sylvia wracked her brain for answers to these questions.
Why, only an hour before, she and Marcia had been on the frankest footing imaginable. Now, like a sea-turn, had come a swift, inexplicable change whose cause she was at a loss to understand and which had rendered her aunt as remote as the farthest star.
Sylvia would have been interested indeed had she known that while she wrestled with the enigma, Marcia, to all appearances busy preparing the tray for the invalid upstairs, was searching her heart for answers to the same questions.
Why had she sought to shield this stranger?
Why had she evaded Doctor Stetson's inquiries and deliberately tried to mislead him into thinking she and Stanley Heath were friends?
What had prompted the deception?
The man was nothing to her. Of his past she had not the slightest knowledge, indeed he might be the greatest villain in the world. In fact, circumstances proclaimed him a thief. Nevertheless, she did not, could not, believe it. There was something too fine in his face; his eyes.
True, he had made no attempt either to defend himself or to explain away the suspicions he must have known would arise in her mind. On the contrary, with a devil-may-care audacity that fascinated her, he actually appeared to have tried to deepen in her mind the impression of his guilt.
Still she refused to believe. Even in the face of overwhelming evidence she clung to her unreasoning faith in him.
Suppose he had stolen the gems and fled with them from Long Island? Suppose he had lost his bearings in the fog; tossed aimlessly on the sea for a day and a night; and then run aground at her doorstep? It was possible, quite possible, even probable.
Yet was it?
Not for a man like Stanley Heath. Marcia stubbornly insisted. So deep was the conviction, she shrank lest he should feel called upon to justify or defend himself.
Far from demanding explanations, she resolved she would give him no chance to make them.
Therefore, when his meal was ready and every last inviting touch had been given the tray, she said casually to Sylvia:
"Suppose you take it up, dear?"
"I?"
"Yes. Why not? Do you mind?"
"Not at all. I just thought perhaps you'd rather."
Marcia shook her head.
"I want to stir the Newburg and see it doesn't catch," she explained, avoiding the girl's eyes. "We are too hungry to risk having our dinner spoiled. You might just wait and cut the chops for Mr. Heath and fix his potato. Find out, too, if there is anything more he wants. You needn't hurry back. I'll keep things hot."
The task suggested did not, apparently, displease Sylvia.
She dimpled and sauntering to the mirror, she glanced in giving her mass of golden curls a feminine poke. She even slipped a vanity-case from her pocket and powdered her wee, up-tilted nose.
"We may as well look our best," laughed she over her shoulder.
"Certainly."
"Perhaps I might take off my smock and go up in my dark dress."
"I wouldn't. The smock is gay and suits you. Invalids need cheering up."
"So they do," agreed Sylvia demurely, now quite self-possessed.
A flutter of anticipation had put a sparkle into hereyes and faint color into her cheeks. She looked bewilderingly pretty.
"Here goes Red-Ridinghood," she murmured, taking up the tray. "All is, if I don't come back, you'll know the wolf has eaten me."
In spite of herself, Marcia smiled.
She opened the door and stood watching while the girl ascended the stairs, for the hall was unlighted and the tray heavy.
"I'm safe," called a merry voice from the topmost stair.
Marcia came back into the kitchen. She finished preparing the lobster, straightened the silver on the table, let in Prince Hal who came bounding to her side, picked a few dead blossoms from the geraniums, and sat down to wait.
Ten minutes passed!
Fifteen!
Half an hour went by.
She fidgeted and stooped to pat the setter. Then she went to the window. Slowly the fog was lifting. It hung like a filmy curtain, its frayed edges receding from a dull steel-blue sea and through it she could discern the irregular sweep of the channel and the shore opposite where dimly outlined stood the spired church and the huddle of houses clustered like wraiths about the curving margin of the bay.
Yes, it was clearing.
The tide had turned and a breeze sprung up.
By afternoon the weather would be fine—just the right sort to get the boat off. She would go up the beach and watch the men while they worked. The house was close. She longed for air and the big reaches of the out-of-doors.
A jingle of glass and silver! It was Sylvia returning with the tray. Her eyes were shining.
"He ate every bit!" she cried. "You should have seen him, Marcia. It would have done your heart good. The poor lamb was almost starved. He asked for you the first thing. I don't think he altogether liked your not carrying up the tray, although of course, he was too polite to say so."
"You explained I was busy?"
"Yes. But at first he didn't seem satisfied with the excuse. However, he soon forgot about it and became gay as a lark. Didn't you hear us laughing? The potato would fall off the fork. I'm not as good a nurse as you. My hands weren't so steady. I'm going back again for his wet clothes. We can dry them here by the fire, can't we?"
"Yes, indeed."
"It's a pity there isn't a tailor at hand. His suit ought to be pressed."
"I can do it," Marcia declared with eagerness."I'm quite used to pressing men's clothes. I always pressed Jason's."
This time the name dropped unnoticed from her lips. Indeed she was not conscious she had uttered it. She was not thinking of Jason.
Itwas late afternoon and, alone in the kitchen, Sylvia yawned.
Since noontime she had sat reading and straining her ears for a sound in the room overhead, but there had been none. He was sleeping after his hearty dinner and that was encouraging.
Doctor Stetson had hoped the wrist would not be painful enough to interfere with the rest the patient so obviously needed, and apparently this hope was being realized.
Sylvia was glad he was asleep—very glad indeed. She did not begrudge him a moment of his slumber. But what a delightful person he was when awake! His eyes were wonderful—so dark and penetrating. They bored right through you. And then he listened with such intentness, watching every curve of your lips as if fearing to lose a word. Such attention was distinctly flattering. Even though your chatter was trivial, he dignified it and transformed it into something of importance.
How interested, for example, he had been in Marcia; in learning she had been married and now lived a widow in the old Daniels Homestead! And whata host of inquiries he had made about Jason—the sort of man he was and how long ago he had died!
Sylvia had not been able to answer all his questions, but of course she had asserted that Marcia had adored her husband because—well, not so much because she actually knew it, as because widows always did. Certainly Marcia had declared she loved the Homestead so deeply she never intended to leave it, and was not that practically the same thing as saying she loved Jason, too?
Anyway, how she had felt toward him was not really a matter of any great importance now because he was dead.
The thing that really mattered was Mr. Heath's interest in her—Sylvia; in her trip East and her description of Alton City, the little mid-western town which was her home. How he had laughed at her rebellion at being a school-teacher, and how insidiously he had hinted she might not always be one! And when she had tossed her curls at him as she often tossed them at Billie Sparks, the soda fountain clerk, how cleverly he had remarked that sunlight was especially welcome on a grey day.
Oh, he knew what to say—knew much better than Billie Sparks or even Horatio Fuller, the acknowledged beau of the town. In fact he made bothof them seem quite commonplace—even Hortie. Fancy it!
Probably that was because he had traveled.
Apparently he had been almost everywhere—except to Alton City. Odd he should never have been there when he had visited just about every other corner, both of America and of Europe. Not that he had deliberately said so. He was far too modest for that.
It was while trying to find out where his home was that she had stumbled upon the information.
And come to think of it, she did not know now where he lived, she suddenly remembered.
At the time she thought he had named the place; but she realized on reviewing the conversation that he had not. In fact, he had not told her much of anything about himself. It had all been about surfboating in the Pacific; skiing at Lake Placid and St. Moritz; climbing the Alps; motoring in Brittany.
She actually did not know whether he had a father or a mother; a brother or a sister.
At Alton City you would have found out all those things within the first ten minutes.
Perhaps that was the reason he piqued her interest—because he was not like Alton City—not like it at all.
Why, were Stanley Heath to stroll up Maple Avenue on a fine, sunny afternoon everybody—even the boys that loafed in front of Bailey's cigar store and the men who loitered on the post-office steps—would turn to look at him.
He would be so different from everybody else he would seem a being from another planet.
It would be fun, she mused, to walk with him through this main street while those on both sides of it craned their necks and asked one another who he was. More fun yet to dash through its shaded arch of trees in a smart little car, talking and laughing with him all the way, and pretending to be unconscious of the staring spectators, although of course she would be seeing them all perfectly well out of the corner of her eye.
She had done this sometimes with Hortie Fuller, simply because she knew every girl in Alton City envied her his devotion.
But what was Hortie compared with Mr. Stanley Heath?
Sylvia tilted her small up-tilted nose even higher.
So occupied was she with these dramatic fancies she had not thought once of Prince Hal. In fact she had supposed that he had gone up the beach with Marcia.
Now she suddenly became aware that he stood sniffing about the hearth, scratching at its surface asif he scented something beneath.
He must not do that, and she told him so in no uncertain terms.
Nevertheless, in spite of the rebuke, he continued to poke away at the spot, whining faintly, until his persistence aroused her curiosity and she went to see what disturbed him.
One brick projected ever so slightly from the others, and it was at this the setter was clawing.
"What is it, Prince? What's the matter?" whispered she.
Delighted to have gained her attention, the dog barked.
"Oh, you mustn't bark, darling," she cautioned, muzzling his nose with her hand. "You'll wake Mr. Heath. Tell Missy what the trouble is. Do you smell a mousie under there?"
For answer the dog wagged his tail.
"I don't believe it," Sylvia demurred. "You're only bluffing. Between you and Winkie-Wee there isn't a mouse about the place. Still, you seem terribly sure something is wrong. Well, to convince you, I'll take up the brick."
Fetching from the pantry a steel fork, she inserted the prongs in the crack and pried the offending brick out of its hole.
Instantly the dog snatched from the space beneatha handkerchief containing a small, hard object.
Sylvia chased after him.
"Bring it here, Hal! That's a good dog! Bring it to Missy."
The setter came fawning to her side and unwillingly dropped his prize at her feet.
As it fell to the ground, out rolled such a glory of jewels the girl could scarcely believe her eyes.
There was a string of diamonds, dazzling as giant dewdrops; a pearl and sapphire pendant; several beautiful rings; and an oval brooch, its emerald centre surrounded by tier after tier of brilliants.
Sylvia panted, breathless. She had never seen such gems, much less held them in her hands. How she longed to slip the rings upon her fingers and try the effect of the diamonds about her slender throat!
Prudence, however, overmastered the impulse. Marcia might return and surprise her at any moment. Before that the treasure must be returned to the place from which it had been taken.
Gathering the rainbow heap together, she reluctantly thrust it into its blue leather case, snapped the catch, and placed it once more under the brick.
Then with relief she stood up and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
It was not until she was again in her chair, book in hand, and struggling to quiet her quick breathingthat she discovered she still held in her hand the handkerchief that had been wrapped about the jewel-case.
How stupid of her! How insufferably careless!
Well, she dared not attempt to replace it now. There was no time. Instead, she smoothed it out and inspected it.
It was a man's handkerchief of finest linen and one corner bore the embroidered initials S. C. H.
She had known it all the time! There was no need to be told the jewels were his. What puzzled her was when he had found time to hide them. He had not, so far as she knew, been left alone a moment and yet here was his booty safe beneath the floor.
She rated it as booty, because there could be no doubt he had stolen it. He had stolen it from that Long Island estate, escaped in his speed boat and here he was—here, under this very roof!
A robber—that was what he was!
A robber—a bandit, such as one saw in the movies!
That explained why he was so well-dressed, so handsome, had such fascinating manners. He was a gentleman burglar.
All up-to-date villains in these days were gentlemen. Not that she had ever encountered a villainin the flesh. Still, she had read romances about them and was there not one in every moving-picture? They were not difficult to recognize.
Now here she was, actually in the same house with one! How thrilling! Here was an adventure worthy of the name. She was not in the least frightened. On the contrary, from the top of her head to the soles of her feet she tingled with excitement. She could feel the hot, pulsing blood throb in her throat and wrists. It was exhilarating—wonderful!
Of course Marcia must not know.
She, with her Puritan ideas, would unquestionably be shocked to discover that the man she was sheltering was a thief. She would probably feel it her Christian duty to surrender him to Elisha Winslow.
How unsuspecting she had been! How naïvely she had clapped her purse down on the table and proclaimed exactly where her gold beads were kept!
A thief in the room overhead! Think of it! The very thief for whom all the police in the countryside were searching! He was no small, cheap type of criminal. He did things on a big scale—so big that radio announcements had been broadcast about him and no doubt at this instant detectives and crime inspectors were chasing up and down the highways; dashing through cities; and keeping telephone wireshot in wild search for the gentleman asleep upstairs!
Sylvia stifled her laughter. The whole thing was ironic.
Why, that very morning had not Elisha Winslow, the Wilton sheriff, who had frankly admitted he yearned for excitement, helped undress the wretch and put him comfortably to bed? The humor of the situation almost overcame her.
It seemed as if she must have someone to share the joke. But no one should. No! Nobody should be the wiser because of her. The poor, hunted fellow should have his chance. He was an under-dog and she had always been romantically sorry for under-dogs.
It was a little venturesome and risky, she admitted, to obstruct justice and should she be found out she would, without doubt, be clapped into jail. Still she resolved to take a chance.
After all, who could prove she had known Stanley Heath to be what he was? Nobody. She would not even let him suspect it.
The important thing was to await an opportunity and soon—before he was able to be about—return the handkerchief she held in her hand to its place beneath the brick. Then all would be well. This should not be difficult. It would be quite easy to getMarcia to take up Mr. Heath's supper.
In the meantime, the situation was intensely amusing. Its danger appealed to her. She had always enjoyed hair-breadth escapades. Anything but dullness. That had been the trouble with Alton City—it had been dull—deadly dull.
But Wilton was not dull. In spite of the fact that only this morning Elisha Winslow had complained the town was in need of a stirring up, it seethed with electricity. If she chose, she could hurl a bomb-shell into its midst this very minute. But she did not choose.
Instead she intended to play her own quiet game and keep what she knew to herself. She wondered why. Perhaps she was falling in love with this adventurer. Yes, that must be it. She was in love with him—in love with a bandit!
How scandalized Alton City would be! How the whole town would hold up its hands in horror if it knew!
Horatio Fuller—dubbed Hortie because of his high-hat manners and because his father owned the largest store in town—picture his dismay if he guessed her guilty secret! Perhaps he would shoot the fellow—or the fellow shoot him. That was what usually happened in moving-pictures, somebody always shot somebody else.
She wouldn't want Hortie to be shot. The thought of it sobered her. After all, Hortie was a dear, she liked him—liked him very much. On the other hand, she would not want Stanley Heath shot either.
Perhaps it would be just as well to leave out all this shooting, why heap horror upon horror? To be married to a bandit was adventure enough without being the wife of a murderer.
Sylvia's imagination had traveled so swiftly and so far that it came to earth with a crash when Marcia opened the door.
Her hair, tossed by the wind, clustered about her face in small, moist ringlets; her cheeks were scarlet, her eyes shone.
It was not alone the buffeting of the salt breeze nor the exhilaration of walking against it that had transformed her into something radiantly lovely. From within glowed a strange fire that made her another creature altogether.
"Why—why—Marcia!" breathed Sylvia, bewildered.
"I've had such a glorious walk, dear!" cried Marcia. "The fog has lifted and the sky is a sheet of amethyst and gold."
"Did the men get the boat off?"
"Yes. She is floating tranquilly as a dove."
"What is her name?"
"My Unknown Lady."
"Mercy on us! That ought to satisfy even Elisha."
"It did," said Marcia.
Sylvia'splans, so well laid and apparently so easy of execution did not, to her chagrin, work out, for instead of awaking and demanding supper Stanley Heath slept without a break until morning.
Had not Marcia insisted on leaving her door ajar lest the invalid call, the girl might have slipped down stairs in the darkness and returned the handkerchief.
As it was, fate forced her to put it into her bureau drawer and await more favorable opportunity.
This, alas, did not come.
Sun was tinting the lavender sands to rose and gilding the water with its first flecks of gold when she saw Marcia standing at the foot of her bed.
"Mr. Heath has a high fever and can scarcely speak aloud," explained she. "I'm afraid he is quite ill. I wish you'd call up Doctor Stetson."
"Mercy on us!"
The girl, drowsy and heavy-eyed, sprang out of bed.
"I'll be down in just a minute," she exclaimed. "How do you happen to be up so early?"
"I've been up off and on all night," answered Marcia. "Mr. Heath was restless and thirsty. About midnight I heard him tossing about, andthinking he might be hungry, I heated some broth and took it to him."
"I didn't hear you. I must have been dead to the world. Why didn't you speak?"
"There was no need of it. You were tired."
"No more than you."
"I was wakeful, anyway. I don't know why. Perhaps I had him on my mind. If so, it is fortunate, for he did not call."
"I'm dreadfully sorry he feels so miserable."
"He won't admit it. He declares he is going back to New York today."
"But he can't—he mustn't."
"He is determined to. He says he has something very important to attend to. Of course I have no authority over him but perhaps Doctor Stetson can exert some. That is why I am anxious to reach him before he goes out," explained Marcia, moving toward the door.
"I will call him right away."
"I'll go down and start breakfast, then. Mr. Heath is dozing. He has promised not to get up for at least an hour. We must have the doctor here within that time."
"I'll tell him to hurry."
Marcia tiptoed down the stairs.
The freshness of early morning was upon the day. Through the kitchen window pale shafts of lightshot across the floor, brightening the colored rugs and making brass and copper glisten. Starting the fire, she threw open the door to let in the salt breeze.
The dampness and chill of the night had disappeared and the air was mild with the breath of coming spring. Mingling with the gulls' cries she could hear the twitter of sparrows and the occasional chirp of a robin. The village, still hazy in mist, was taking on sharper outlines and from the bay the voices of fishermen and the chug of a motor-boat drifted distinctly across the water.
Prince came bounding into the house from some distant pilgrimage of his own, almost knocking her down in his eagerness for breakfast.
She glanced far up the shore and saw, serenely rocking with the tide,My Unknown Lady.
As she whispered the name, she was conscious of hot blood rushing to her cheeks.
How ridiculous! Stanley Heath was simply a stranger of a night, he was nothing to her.
Well indeed was it, too, that he was not!
During her hours of sleeplessness the ardor of her faith in him had, to a degree, cooled. True, she still maintained her belief in his innocence; but that belief, she now realized, was only a blind unfounded intuition. Both the circumstances and sober second thought failed to back it up. The man's impatience to be gone, his complete silence with regard tothe jewels, although perfectly justifiable, did not strengthen it.
Marcia conceded he had every right to keep his affairs to himself. She was close-mouthed and therefore sympathetic with the quality in others.
But such an unusual happening! What more natural than that one should offer some explanation?
Last night, transported by emotion to a mood superheroic, she had wished none; nay, more, she had deliberately placed herself beyond the reach of it. Today she toppled from her pedestal and became human, shifting from goddess to woman.
Had Stanley Heath started to confide his secret to her, she would even now have held up her hand to stay him.
It was the fact that through the dim hours of the night, while she sat at his elbow trying to make the discomforts he suffered more bearable, he talked of almost everything else but the thing uppermost in both their minds. That was what hurt. She did not want to know. She wanted to be trusted; to help; to feel his dependence upon her. Instead he held her at arm's length.
Oh, he voiced his gratitude for what she had done. He did that over and over again, apologizing at having caused her so much trouble. As if she minded! Why, she was glad, glad to be troubled!
He spoke with almost an equal measure of appreciation of the crew who had dragged his boat off the sand-bar, appearing to consider them also tremendously kind—as undoubtedly they were! Still, they had not begun to come into the close contact with him that she had.
Marcia caught herself up with a round turn. Here she was being sensitive, womanish. How detestable! Why should Stanley Heath pour out his soul to her? She had never laid eyes on him until yesterday. In a day or two he would be gone never again to come into her life. She was glad of it. It was better so.
She had just reached a state of complete tranquillity and happiness. Why have her serenity stirred into turmoil and she herself transformed once more from a free woman to a slave? Her mind should dwell no more on this man or his affairs. If he decided to go back to New York today, ill as he was, she would not attempt to deter him. His business was his own and he must manage it as he thought best.
This decision reached, she drew in her chin, lifted her head a wee bit and began to get the breakfast.
Even Doctor Stetson's arrival and his subsequent verdict that the patient had bronchitis and would take his life in his hands should he leave his bed, afforded her only scant satisfaction.
So she was to keep Stanley Heath under her roof after all—but against his will. It was not a very flattering situation.
She sent Sylvia up with his coffee and toast, and began her usual round of morning duties.
And then just as they were finished and the clock was striking eleven, he called.
She went up, cheerful but with her head still held high, and paused on the threshold.
Glancing at her he smiled.
"You look like a bird about to take flight. Won't you sit down?"
She went nearer. Nevertheless she did not take the chair he indicated.
"I see you are busy," he said. "I thought perhaps your housework might be done by this time and you might have a moment to spare. Well, I mustn't interrupt. Forgive me for calling."
"I'm not busy."
"You seem hurried."
"I'm not. I haven't a thing in the world to do," Marcia burst out.
"Good! Then you can stay a little while," he coaxed. "Now answer this question truthfully, please. You heard what Doctor Stetson said about my returning to New York today. I don't want to be pig-headed and take a risk if it is imprudent; thatis neither fair to others nor to myself. Still, it is important that I go and I am anxious to. What is your advice?"
"I think you are too ill."
A frown of annoyance wrinkled his forehead.
"If you will consent to stay where you are a few days, you will then be all right to go," she added.
Obviously the suggestion did not please him. However, he answered more mildly:
"Perhaps you're right. Yet for all that I am disappointed. I want very much to go. It is necessary."
"Can't anything be done from here?" queried she.
"Such as—?"
"Letters, telegrams—whatever you wish. I can telephone or telegraph anywhere. Or I can write."
Surprise stole over his face, then deepened to admiration.
"You would do that for me—blindfolded?"
"Why not?"
"You know why."
"I simply want to help. I always like to help when I can," she explained hurriedly.
"Even when you do not understand?"
Piercingly his eyes rested on her face.
"I—I—do not need to understand," was her proud retort.
For the fraction of a second, their glances met. Then she turned away and a pause, broken only by the crash of the surf on the outer beach, fell between them.
When at last he spoke his voice was low—imperative.
"Marcia—come here!"
She went—she knew not why.
"Give me your hand."
Again, half-trembling, half reluctant, she obeyed.
He took it in his and bending, kissed it.
"I will stay and you shall telegraph," was all he said.
She sprang to fetch paper and pencil, as if welcoming this break in the tension.
"I'm afraid I cannot write plainly enough with my left hand," he said. "Will you take down the message?"
"Certainly."
"Mrs. S. C. Heath"
Her pencil, so firm only an instant before, quivered.
"Have you that?"
"Yes."
"The Biltmore, New York City."
"Yes."
"Everything safe with me. Do not worry. Marooned on Cape Cod with cold. Nothing serious. Home soon. Love. Stanley."
"Got that?"
"Yes."
Had something gone out of her voice? The monosyllable was flat, colorless. Heath looked at her. Even her expression was different—or did he merely imagine it?
"Perhaps I would better just glance over the message before you send it—simply to make sure it's right."
"Let me copy it first," she objected.
"Copy it? Nonsense! What for? Nobody's going to see it."
He reached for the paper.
Still she withheld it.
"What's the trouble?"
"It isn't written well enough. I'd rather copy it."
"Why?"
"It's wobbly. I—I—perhaps my hands were cold."
"You're not chilly?"
"No—oh, no."
"If the room is cool you mustn't stay here."
"It isn't. I'm not cold at all."
"Will you let me take the telegram?"
She placed it in his hand.
"It is shaky. However, that's of no consequence, since you are to 'phone Western Union. Now, if you truly are not cold, I'd like to dictate a second wire."
"All right."
"This one is for Currier.Mr. James Currier, The Biltmore, New York City. Safe on Cape with My Lady. Shall return with her later. Motor here at once, bringing whatever I need for indefinite stay.
Stanley C. Heath
"Got that?"
"O.K.," nodded Marcia.
This time, without hesitation, she passed him the paper.
"This, I see, is your normal hand-writing," he commented as he placed the messages side by side. "I must admit it is an improvement on the other."
Taking up the sheets, he studied them with interest.
"Hadn't I better go and get off the messages?" suggested Marcia, rising nervously.
"What's your hurry?"
"You said they were important."
"So I did. Nevertheless they can wait a few minutes."
"The station might be closed. Often it is at noontime."
"It doesn't matter if they don't go until afternoon."
"But there might be some slip."
He glanced at her with his keen eyes.
"What's the matter?"
"Matter?"
"Yes, with you? All of a sudden you've turned easterly."
"Have I?" Lightly, she laughed. "I probably have caught the habit from the sea. Environment does influence character, psychologists say."
"Nevertheless, you are not fickle."
"How do you know? Even if I were, to change one's mind is no crime," she went on in the same jesting tone. "The wind bloweth whither it listeth, and the good God does not condemn it for doing so."
"But you are not the wind."
"Perhaps I am," she flashed teasingly. "Or I may have inherited qualities from the sands that gave me birth. They are forever shifting."
"You haven't."
"You know an amazing amount about me, seems to me, considering the length of our acquaintance," she observed with a tantalizing smile.
"I do," was the grim retort. "I know more than you think—more, perhaps than you know yourself. Shall I hold the betraying mirror up before you?"
"The mirror of truth? God forbid! Who of us would dare face it?" she protested, still smiling but with genuine alarm. "Now do let me run along and send off the messages. I must not loiter here talking. You are forgetting that you're ill. The next youknow your temperature will go up and Doctor Stetson will blame me."
"My temperature has gone up," growled Stanley Heath, turning his back on her and burying his face in the pillow with the touchiness of a small boy.