The nose 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 you could 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 opposite mine. 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," continued he, 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 a carvin'-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 out over 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."