It was 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 what a 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 both of 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 as if 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 beneath a 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 breathing that 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 villain in 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 wires hot 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 get Marcia 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.