Stanley Heath was lying with expectant face turned toward the door when Sylvia entered.

"What's the rumpus?" he demanded.

"You heard?"

"Heard? Certainly I heard," he laughed. "I could not hear what was said, of course, but anyone within five miles could have heard those men roaring at one another. What's the trouble?"

"The trouble is you," answered the girl.

"Me?"

"Yes. Didn't you expect trouble sometime?"

"We all must expect trouble sooner or later, I suppose," was the enigmatic answer. "To just what particular variety of trouble did you refer?"

"I guess you know. There is no use mincing matters or beating about the bush. We haven't the time to waste. The jewels have gone and you must go, too."

The man looked dumbfounded.

"Don't misunderstand me, please," Sylvia rushed on. "I'm not blaming you—nor judging you. I don't know why you took them. You may have been tempted beyond your strength. You may have needed money sorely. All that is none of my business."

"You believe I stole them?"

"Certainly I do."

"Suppose I didn't?"

"I expected you'd say that," was the calm retort. "Let it go that way if you prefer. I don't mind. What I want to do is to help you to get away."

"Even if I am guilty."

"Yes."

"But why?"

"Because you're sick and in a trap; because I—I—well—" she faltered, her lips trembling, "I just can't bear to have that mean little sheriff who's after you catch you."

"What's that?"

Startled, Heath sat up.

"That wretched Elisha Winslow who came here this morning with Eleazer Crocker tagging at his heels. In some way they had found out about the jewels and where you had hidden them. Prying into other people's affairs, no doubt, when they would have much better minded their own business. Well, it doesn't matter how they found out. They know the truth, which is the important thing. They even attempted to come upstairs and arrest you post haste; but Marcia wouldn't allow it."

"Marcia!" he spoke the name softly. "She heard the story, too?"

"Of course."

"Poor Marcia!"

"You may well say poor Marcia," Sylvia echoed sarcastically. "You have made her most unhappy. Oh, Mr. Heath, Marcia has not had the sort of life that I told you she had. She has been wretched—miserable. Go away before you heap more suffering upon her. She is fighting to make something of her wrecked life. Leave her and let her make it. I'll help you get out of town. I am sure we can devise a plan. I'll row you across to the mainland and contrive somehow to get you safely aboard a train. If we only had a car—"

"My car is at the Wilton garage."

"Oh, then it will be easy," exclaimed she with evident relief.

"Not so easy as it seems."

Heath held up his bandaged hand.

"I doubt if I could drive any distance with this wrist," he said. "Of course it is on the mend. Nevertheless, it is still stiff from disuse, and pretty clumsy."

"Couldn't I drive? I've driven quite a lot. What make is your car?"

"A Buick."

"I've never driven one of those. I wonder if I'd dare try? How I wish Hortie were here! He could drive it. He can drive anything."

"Hortie?"

"Horatio Fuller—a man I know out west. If only he wasn't so far away! He'd help us in a minute. He'd do it and ask no questions. That's what we need—someone who'll ask no questions."

She frowned, thoughtfully.

"Well, no matter. We can find somebody, I am sure—especially if we pay them liberally. I'll see what I can do."

"Wait just a moment. What does Marcia say?"

"Marcia? Oh, you must not listen to Marcia. She is too much upset to be depended on. She cannot see the case at all as it is. Her advice wouldn't be worth twopence. Trust me in this, please. Trust me, Mr. Heath. I promise you I'll stand by you to the last ditch. I'm not afraid."

"I think I'd better talk with Marcia first."

"Don't! It will only be a waste of time."

"Still, I must hear what she has to say."

"You won't like it. Marcia is hard, merciless. Her conscience drives her to extremes. Even should you get her opinion, you would not follow it."

"What makes you so sure I wouldn't?"

"Because it would be madness, sheer madness. You'll realize that, as I do," insisted Sylvia with an impatient tapping of her foot. "Marcia stubbornly shuts her mind to the truth and will only look on one side. She just repeats the same words over and over again."

"What words?"

"I shall not tell you."

"Then she must tell me herself. Will you ask her to come up, please?"

"I'd rather not."

"You prefer I should call her?"

Baffled, the girl turned away.

"No. I'll send her to you—if I must. But remember, I warned you."

"I shall not soon forget that, Sylvia, nor the splendid loyalty you've shown today. I shall always remember it. Whatever happens, please realize that I am grateful," Heath said earnestly. Then in less serious vein he added: "I never dreamed you were such a valiant little fighter."

His smile, irresistible in brightness, brought a faint, involuntary reflection into Sylvia's clouded countenance.

"Oh. I can fight for people—when I care," cried she, impulsively.

Did the artless confession, the blush that accompanied it, soften the voice of the man so observantly watching until it unconsciously took on the fond, caressing tone one uses toward a child?

"So I see. Run along now, little girl, and fetch Marcia."

"I wish I could make you promise not to listen to her," coaxed Sylvia, making one last wistful appeal.

"I cannot promise that."

"I'm sorry. You'd be wiser if you did."

It was some moments before Marcia answered the summons and when at last she came, it was with downcast eyes and evident reluctance.

"You sent for me?" she said, halting stiffly at the foot of the bed.

"Won't you please sit down?" Heath replied.

"I've only a few moments. I'd rather stand."

"But I cannot say what I wish to say while you flutter there as if poised for flight," urged the man, annoyance discernible in his husky voice.

Unwillingly Marcia slipped into the chair beside him.

"That's better," he said, smiling. "Now tell me exactly what happened down stairs."

"Didn't Sylvia tell you?"

"She told me something. I want your version of the story."

As if realizing the futility, both of protest and evasion, the woman let her gaze travel to the dim purple line where sea met sky and began to speak.

She related the incident tersely; without comment; and in a dull, impersonal manner.

Stanley Heath, scrutinizing her with keen, appraising eyes, could not but note the pallor of her cheeks, the unsteadiness of her lips, the nervous clasping and unclasping of her hands.

The narrative concluded, her glance dropped to the floor and silence fell between them.

"And that is all?" he inquired when convinced she had no intention of speaking further.

"That is all."

"Thank you. Now what had I better do?"

She made no answer.

"What do you think it best for me to do?" he repeated.

"Best? How do you mean—best? Best for your body or best for your soul?"

"For both."

"But suppose the two should not coincide?"

"Then I must reconcile them or choose between them."

"You cannot reconcile them."

"Choose between them then—compromise."

At the word, he saw her shiver.

"Well, you are not advising me," he persisted when she offered no reply.

"How can I? You know your own affairs—know the truth and yourself far better than I."

"Granting all that, nevertheless, I should like your opinion."

"You will not thank me for it," cautioned she, bitterly. "Sylvia says I am quixotic, impractical."

"Never mind Sylvia. Tell me what you think."

"But how can I give a just opinion? I cannot judge," she burst out as if goaded beyond her patience. "I know none of the facts. To judge the conduct of another, one must know every influence that contributed to the final catastrophe. No person but God Himself can know that."

A radiance, swift as the passage of a meteor, flashed across Stanley Heath's face and was gone.

"Suppose you yourself had taken these jewels and were placed in this dilemma?" pressed he.

"That would be entirely different."

"Why?"

"The case would not be similar at all."

"Why not?" Heath reiterated.

"Because—because I should be guilty."

"You mean—you think—"

"I do not believe you took the jewels," was the quiet answer.

"Marcia! Marcia!" He reached for her hand, then sharply checked the gesture. "Why don't you believe I took them?"

"It isn't like you."

"The evidence is against me—every whit of it."

"I cannot help that."

"Have I ever told you I did not take them? Ever led you to suppose me innocent?"

"You have never told me anything about it."

"You have never asked."

"As if I should put to you a question like that," she said proudly.

"You had the right to inquire."

"I did not need to."

Once again the man restrained an impulse to imprison her hands in his.

"Suppose I did take them?" he went on in an even, coolly modulated voice. "Suppose the case stands exactly as this shrewd-eyed Wilton sheriff suspects it does? What am I to do?"

He saw the color drain from her face.

"I only know what I should do, were I in your place."

"Tell me that."

"I should go through with it—clear my soul of guilt."

"And afterward?"

"Start over again."

"That would be very difficult. The stigma of crime clings to a man. Its stamp remains on him, try as he will to shake it off. My life would be ruined were I to pursue such a course."

"Not your real life. You would, of course, lose standing among your supposed friends; but you would not lose it among those whose regard went deeper. Even if you did—what would it matter?"

"But to be alone, friendless! Who would help me piece together the mangled fragments of such a past—for I should need help; I could not do it alone? Do you imagine that in all the world there would be even one person whose loyalty and affection would survive so acid a test?"

"There might be," she murmured, turning away her head.

"Even so, would I have the presumption to accept such a service? The right to impose on a devotion so self-effacing?"

"The person might be glad, proud to help you—consider it a privilege."

"Who would, Marcia? Do you know of anyone?"

She leaped to her feet.

"Why do you ask me?" she demanded, the gentleness of her voice chilling to curtness. "You have such a helpmate near you—or should have."

"I don't understand," pleaded the man, puzzled by her change of mood.

"Perhaps we'd better not go into that now," was her response. "It is beside the point."

"On the contrary it is the point."

"I don't see how. What happens after the penalty has been paid has nothing to do with the paying of it."

"In this case it has everything."

"I cannot stay," she whispered, frightened by his insistence. "I must go."

"Wait just a moment."

"I cannot. I must get dinner."

"Never mind the dinner!"

She looked at him then for the first time.

"We have to eat," she declared making an attempt at lightness.

"Not always. Sometimes there are things more important."

"To think of a man saying that!"

The ring of the telephone chimed in with her silvery laughter.

"I'll go, Sylvia," she called with a promptness that indicated the interruption was a welcome one.

"Yes. Yes, this is Mrs. Howe at Wilton.

"It's long distance," she called to Heath. "New York is on the line.

"Yes, he is here. He can speak with you himself.

"Mrs. Heath wishes to speak with you," she announced formally. "Slip on your bathrobe and come."

Heath took the receiver from her hand.

"Joan? This certainly is good of you, dear. Yes, I am much better, thank you. Bless your precious heart, you needn't have worried. Currier will be back late tonight or early tomorrow morning and he will tell you how well I am progressing. Yes, he has the jewels. Put them in the safe right away, won't you?

"I can't say when I shall be home. Something has come up that may keep me here some time. I cannot explain just now. It is the thing you have always predicted would happen to me sometime. Well, it has happened. Do you get that? Yes, I am caught—hard and fast. It is a bit ironic to have traveled all over the world and then be taken captive in a small Cape Cod village. I guess I believe in Fate, destiny—whatever you call it.

"I'm in something of a tangle just at present. I may even have to call on you to help me straighten it out. That's sweet of you, dear. You've never failed me. Oh, I can talk—it doesn't hurt me. You mustn't mind my croak. I'm not so badly off as I sound. I'll let you know the first minute I have anything definite to tell.

"Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself. It's done me a world of good to hear your voice."

Heath returned the receiver to its hook and in high spirits strode back into his room.

If, however, he hoped there to take up the threads of the conversation so unexpectedly broken off, he was disappointed.

Marcia's chair was empty.

She was nowhere to be seen.