He awoke at seven, and looked in upon Hood, who lay sprawled upon his bed reading one of the battered volumes of Borrow he carried in his bag.

“Get your tub, son; I’ve had mine and came back to bed to let you have your sleep out. Marvellous man—Borrow. Spring’s the time to read him. We’ll have some breakfast and go out and see what the merry old world has to offer.”

With nice calculation he tossed the book into the open bag on the further side of the room, rose, and stretched himself. Deering stifled an impulse to scoff at his silk pajamas as hardly an appropriate sleeping garb for one who professed to have taken vows of poverty. Hood noted his glance.

“Found these in some nabob’s house at Bar Harbor last fall. Went up in November, after all the folks had gone, to have a look at the steely blue ocean; camped in a big cottage for a few days. Found a drawer full of these things and took the pink ones. Wrote my thanks on the villa’s stationery and pinned ’em to the fireplace. I hate to admit it, son, but I verily believe I could stand a little breakfast.”

“We’re going out for breakfast,” Deering remarked with affected carelessness. “I accepted an invitation for you last night. A girl up there at the bungalow asked me; I told her about you, and she seemed willing to stand for it.”

“The thought pleases me! You are certainly doing well, my boy!” Hood replied, dancing about on one foot as he drew a sock on the other.

He explained that a man should never sit down while dressing; that the exercise he got in balancing himself was of the greatest value as a stimulus to the circulation.

“She’s a very nice girl, I think,” Deering continued, showing his lathered face at the bathroom door.

He hadn’t expected Hood to betray surprise, and he was not disappointed in the matter-of-course fashion in which his companion received the invitation.

“Breakfast is the one important meal of the day,” Hood averred as he executed a series of hops in his efforts to land inside his trousers. “All great adventures should be planned across breakfast tables; centrepiece of cool fruits; coffee of teasing fragrance, the toast crisp; an egg perhaps, if the morning labors are to be severe. I know a chap in Boston who cuts out breakfast altogether. Most melancholy person I ever knew; peevish till one o’clock, then throws in a heavy lunch that ruins him for the rest of the day. What did you say the adorable’s name was?”

“Pierrette,” Deering spluttered from the tub.

“Delightful!” cried Hood, flourishing his hair-brushes. “Then you met the dancing-girl! I must say——”

“She had hung a moon in a tree! I followed the moon and found the girl!”

“Always the way; it never fails,” Hood commented, as though the finding of the girl had fully justified his philosophy of life. “But we can’t fool away much time at the bungalow; we’ve got a lot to do to-day.”

“Time!” cried Deering, “I’m going to stay forever! You can’t expect me to find a girl whose post-office address is the Little Dipper, and then go coolly off and forget about her!”

“That’s the right spirit, son,” Hood remarked cautiously; “but we’ll see. I’ll have a look at her and decide what’s best for you. My business right now is to keep you out of trouble. You can’t tell about these moon girls; she may have a wart on her nose when you see her in daylight.”

Deering hooted.

“And she probably has parents who may not relish the idea of having two strange men prowling about the premises looking for breakfast. There are still a few of those old-fashioned people left in the world. It may be only a backdoor hand-out for us, but I’ve sawed wood for breakfast before now. I’ll wait for you below; I want to see how old Cassowary’s standing the racket. The boy seemed a little cheerfuller last night.”

They walked to the bungalow which, to Deering’s relief, was still perched on the ridge as he had left it. He was beset with misgivings as they entered the gate and followed a hedge-lined path that rose gradually to the house; it might be a joke after all; but Hood’s manner was reassuring. He swung his stick and praised the landscape, and when they reached the veranda banged the knocker noisily. A capped and aproned maid opened the door immediately.

Deering, struck with cowardice, found his legs quaking and stepped back to allow Hood to declare their purpose.

“We have come for breakfast, lass,” Hood announced, “and have brought our appetites with us if that fact interests you.”

“You are expected,” said the maid; “breakfast will be served immediately.”

She led the way across a long living-room to the dining-room beyond, where a table was set for three. The tangible presence of the third plate caused Deering’s heart to thump.

“The host or hostess—?” Hood inquired as the girl waited for them to be seated.

“The lady of the house wished me to say that she would be here—in spirit! Pressing duties called her elsewhere.”

Deering’s spirits sank. Pierrette, then, was only a dream of the night, and had never had the slightest intention of meeting him at breakfast! The maid curtsied and vanished through a swing door.

Hood, accepting the situation as he found it, expressed his satisfaction as a bowl of strawberries was placed on the table, and as the door ceased swinging behind the maid, laid his hand on Deering’s arm. “Don’t worry; mere shyness has driven our divinity away: you can see for yourself that even a girl who hangs moons in trees might shrink from the shock of a daylight meeting with a gentleman she had found amusing by starlight. Let it suffice that she provided the breakfast according to schedule—that’s highly encouraging. With strawberries at present prices she has been generous. This little disappointment merely adds zest to the adventure.”

The hand of the maid as she changed his plate at once interested Deering. It was a slender, supple, well-kept hand, browned by the sun. Her maid’s dress was becoming; her cap merely served to invite attention to her golden-brown hair. Her coloring left nothing for the heart to desire, and her brown eyes called immediately for a second glance. She was deft and quick; her graceful walk in itself compelled admiration. As the door closed upon her, Hood bent a look of inquiry upon his brooding companion.

“Perhaps she’s the adorable—the true, authentic Pierrette,” he suggested.

Deering shook his head.

“No; the other girl was not so tall and her voice was different; it was wonderfully sweet and full of laughter. I couldn’t be fooled about it.”

“There’s mystery here—a game of some kind. Mark the swish of silken skirts; unless my eyes fail me, I caught a glimpse of silken hose as she flitted into the pantry.”

When an omelet had been served and the coffee poured (she poured coffee charmingly!) Hood called her back as she was about to leave them.

“Two men should never be allowed to eat alone. If your mistress is not returning at once, will you not do us the honor to sit down with us?”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, biting her lip to conceal a smile.

Deering was on his feet at once and drew out the third chair, which she accepted without debate. She composedly folded her arms on the edge of the table as though she were in nowise violating the rules set down for the guidance of waitresses. Hood, finding the situation to his taste, blithely assumed the lead in the conversation.

“It is perfectly proper for you to join us at table,” he remarked, “but formal introductions would not be in keeping. Still, your employer doubtless has some familiar name for you, and you might with propriety tell us what it is, so we won’t need to attract your attention by employing the vulgar ‘Say’ or ‘Listen’!”

“My mistress calls me Babette,” she answered, her lashes drooping becomingly.

“Perfect!” cried Hood ecstatically. “And we are two outlaws whose names it is more discreet for us to withhold, even if it were proper to exchange names with a mere housemaid.”

Deering winced; it was indecent in Hood to treat her as though she were a housemaid when so obviously she was not.

“My friend doesn’t mean to be rude,” he explained; “the morning air always makes him a little delirious.”

“I hope I know my place,” the girl replied, “and I’m sure you gentlemen mean to be kind.”

“You needn’t count the spoons after we leave,” said Hood; “I assure you we have no professional designs on the house.”

“Thank you, sir. Of course, if you stole anything, it would be taken out of my wages.”

Deering’s interest in her increased.

She rested her chin on her hand just as his sister often did when they lingered together at table. He was a good brother and Constance was his standard. He was sure that Constance would like Pierrette’s maid. He resented Hood’s patronizing attitude toward the girl, but Hood’s spirits were soaring and there was no checking him.

“Babette,” he began, “I’m going to trouble you with a question, not doubting you will understand that my motives are those of a philosopher whose whole life has been devoted to the study of the human race. May I ask you to state in all sincerity whether you consider apple sauce the essential accompaniment of roast duck?”

“I do not; nor do I care for jelly with venison,” she answered readily.

“Admirable! You are clearly no child of convention but an independent thinker! May I smoke? Thanks!”

He drew out his pipe and turned beaming to the glowering Deering.

“There, my boy! Babette is one of us—one of the great company of the stars! Wonderful, how you find them at every turn! Babette, my sister, I salute you!”

She smiled and turned toward Deering.

“Are you, too, one of the Comrades of Perpetual Youth?” she inquired gravely.

“I am,” Deering declared heartily, and they smiled at each other; “but I’m only a novice—a brother of the second class.”

She shook her head.

“There can be no question of classes in the great comradeship—either we are or we are not.”

“Well spoken!” Hood assented, pushing back his chair and crossing his legs comfortably.

“And you—do you and Pierrette think about things the same way?” Deering asked.

“We do—by not thinking,” Babette replied. “Thinking among the comrades is forbidden, is it not?”

“Absolutely,” Hood affirmed. “Our young brother here is still a little weak in the faith, but he’s taking to it splendidly.”

“I’m new myself,” Babette confessed.

“You’re letter-perfect in the part,” said Hood. “Perhaps you were driven to it? Don’t answer if you would be embarrassed by a confession.”

The girl pondered a moment; her face grew grave, and she played nervously with the sugar-tongs.

“A man loved me and I sent him away, and was sorry!” The last words fell from her lips falteringly.

“He will come back—if he is worthy of one of the comradeship,” said Hood consolingly. “Even now he may be searching for you.”

“I was unkind to him; I was very hard on him! And I’ve been afraid—sometimes—that I should never see him again.”

Deering thought he saw a glint of tears in her eyes. She rose hastily and asked with a wavering smile:

“If there’s nothing further——”

“Not food—if you mean that,” said Hood.

“But about Pierrette!” Deering exclaimed despairingly. “If she’s likely to come, we must wait for her.”

“I rather advise you against it,” the girl answered. “I have no idea when she will come back.”

They rose instinctively as she passed out. The door fanned a moment and was still.

“Well?” demanded Deering ironically.

“Please don’t speak to me in that tone,” responded Hood. “This was your breakfast, not mine; you needn’t scold me if it didn’t go to suit you! Ah, what have we here!”

He had drawn back a curtain at one end of the dining-room, disclosing a studio beyond. It was evidently a practical workshop and bore traces of recent use. Deering passed him and strode toward an easel that supported a canvas on which the paint was still wet. He cried out in astonishment:

“That’s the moon girl—that’s the girl I talked to last night—clown clothes and all! She’s sitting on the wall there just as I found her.”

“A sophisticated brush; no amateur’s job,” Hood muttered, squinting at the canvas. “Seems to me I’ve seen that sort of thing somewhere lately—Pantaloon, Harlequin, Columbine, and Clown—latest fad in magazine covers. We’re in the studio of a popular illustrator—there’s a bunch of proofs on the table, and those things on the floor are from the same hand. Signature in the corner a trifle obscure—Mary B. Taylor.”

“She may be Babette,” Deering suggested. “Suppose I call her and ask?”

Hood, having become absorbed in a portfolio of pen-and-ink sketches of clowns, harlequins, and columbines, subjects in which the owner of the studio apparently specialized, paid no heed to the suggestion. When Deering returned he was gazing critically at a sketch showing a dozen clowns executing a spirited dance on a garden-wall.

“She’s skipped! There isn’t a soul on the place,” Deering announced dejectedly.

“Not at all surprising; probably gone to join her model, Pierrette. And we’d better clear out before we learn too much; life ceases to be interesting when you begin to find the answers to riddles. Pierrette is probably a friend of the artist, and plays model for the fun of it. The same girl is repeated over and over again in these drawings—from which I argue that Pierrette likes to pose and Babette enjoys painting her. We mustn’t let this affect the general illusion. The next turn of the road will doubtless bring us to something that can’t be explained so easily.”

“If it doesn’t bring us to Pierrette—” began Deering.

“Tut! None of that! For all you know it may bring us to something infinitely better. Remember that this is mid-May, and anything may happen before June kindles the crimson ramblers. Let us be off.”

Half-way across the living-room Deering stopped suddenly.

“My bag—my suitcase!” he shouted.

A suitcase it was beyond question, placed near the door as though to arrest their attention. Deering pounced upon it eagerly and flung it open.

“It’s all right—the stuff’s here!” he cried huskily.

He began throwing out the packets that filled the case, glancing hurriedly at the seals. Hood lounged near, watching him languidly.

“Most unfortunate,” he remarked, noting the growing satisfaction on Deering’s face as he continued his examination. “Now that you’ve found that rubbish, I suppose there’ll be no holding you; you’ll go back to listen to the ticker just when I had begun to have some hope of you!”

“It was Pierrette that took it; it couldn’t have been this artist girl,” said Deering, excitedly whipping out his penknife and slitting one of the packages. A sheaf of blank wrapping-paper fluttered to the floor. His face whitened and he gave a cry of dismay. “Robbed! Tricked!” he groaned, staring at Hood.

Hood picked up the paper and scrutinized the seal.

“S. J. Deering, personal,” he read in the wax. “You don’t suppose that girl has taken the trouble to forge your father’s private seal, do you?”

Deering feverishly tore open the other packages.

“All alike; the stuff’s gone!”

Perspiration beaded his forehead. He stared stupidly at the worthless paper.

“You ought to be grateful, son,” said Hood; “yesterday you thought yourself a thief—now that load’s off your mind, and you know yourself for an honest man. General rejoicing seems to be in order. Looks as though your parent had robbed himself—rather a piquant situation, I must say.”

He carried the wrappers to the window-seat and examined them more closely.

“Seals were all intact. ‘The Tyringham estate,’” he read musingly. “What do you make of that?” he asked Deering, who remained crumpled on the floor beside the suitcase.

“That’s an estate father was executor of—it’s a long story. Old man Tyringham had been a customer of his, and left a will that made it impossible to close the estate till his son had reached a certain age. The final settlement was to be made this summer. But my God, Hood, do you suppose father—my father could be——”

“A defaulter?” Hood supplied blandly.

“It’s impossible!” roared Deering. “Father’s the very soul of honor.”

“I dare say he is,” remarked Hood carelessly. “So were you till greed led you to pilfer your governor’s strong box. Let us be tolerant and withhold judgment. It’s enough that your own skirts are clear. Put that stuff out of sight; we must flit.”

Hood set off for the Barton Arms at a brisk pace, talking incessantly.

“This whole business is bully beyond my highest expectations. By George, it’s almost too good to be true! Critics of the drama complain that the average amateur’s play ends with every act; but so far in our adventures every incident leads on to something else. Perfectly immense that somebody had beaten you to the bonds!”

Deering’s emotions were beyond utterance. It was a warm morning, and he did not relish carrying the suitcase, whose recovery had plunged him into a despair darker than that caused by its loss.

At a turn in the road Hood paused, struck his stick heavily upon the ground, and drew out the slipper. He whirled it in the air three times and twice it pointed east. He thrust it back into his pocket with a sigh of satisfaction and brushed the dust from his hands.

“Once more we shall follow the pointing slipper. Yesterday it led us to the moon girl, the bungalow, and the suitcase; now it points toward the mysterious east, and no telling what new delights!”