"And yet 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 thought they 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 the thoughts 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 name of 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? Or Sovereign 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? The Ah-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' left him 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 her eyes 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.