“How do you mean—it might be the best thing to get acquainted with her?” demanded Phyllis, indignantly.

“Why, if we could do so in some way that wasn’t like forcing ourselves on her, it might lead to a good many things—solving our mystery mainly. And then,—who knows?—she might be pleasant when you come to know her better.”

“No chance!” declared Phyllis, and dismissed that subject. “Well, Aunt Sally didn’t do much toward clearing up things, did she?” she went on. “I was in hopes she’d be able to give us a good many more ideas. One thing’s certain though. That girl evidently came here in the car that rainy night, but—Look here! Something strange has just occurred to me—Aunt Sally didn’t say which rainy night, and there have been two in the past ten days. I judge that the girl must have been with her for at least a couple of weeks, for the hotel closed up more than two weeks ago.”

“I’ve been thinking of that, too,” replied Leslie. “And, do you know, I’m almost certain Aunt Sally must have meant the last one, because she only said ‘rainy’ night. If she’d meant that other, wouldn’t she have said ‘the night of the hard storm,’ or something like that? Because it really was unusual, and if this Miss Ramsay had gone out that night, I believe Aunt Sally would have been considerably more shocked and would have said so. What do you make of it?”

“The only thing I can make out of it is that she didn’t go out that first night. But if she didn’t visit Curlew’s Nest that night, then who in the world did?”

This certainly was a poser, and neither of the two girls could find an adequate conjecture that would answer.

“Then, this Horatio Gaines who hired the bungalow must be her grandfather. Of course, the name is different, but he may be the grandfather on her mother’s side. But if that is the case, who is the ‘Hon. Arthur Ramsay’?” questioned Phyllis.

“Perhaps her father or her other grandfather,” ventured Leslie.

“That’s possible; but I wish I had found out from Aunt Sally if she knew the name of the grandfather who is ill. That might explain something. I wish I had asked her at the time. I believe I’ll go for the broilers myself to-morrow and see if I can find out any more in some way that won’t make her suspect,” declared Phyllis.

The next morning Phyllis was as good as her word. She went down to the village alone, as Leslie had matters that kept her at home that day. But she came flying back breathless, to impart her news.

“I managed to lead the conversation around—to that grandfather business—again,” panted Phyllis, to Leslie, when she had induced her chum to come down to the beach for a moment, “and what do you think she said? That his name was ‘Ramsay’! Now what do you make of that? If his name is Ramsay, he can’t be the man who hired that bungalow—and we’re all on the wrong track!”

“No, it doesn’t prove that at all,” insisted Leslie. “The one who rented the bungalow, no matter what his name was, certainly had an envelop in his possession addressed to Ramsay. So you see there’s a connection somewhere!”

Phyllis had to admit that this was so. “But here’s something else stranger than that—what do you think of my having been introduced to and becoming acquainted with our ‘exclusive young friend’?”

Leslie certainly opened her eyes in astonishment. “You’re surely joking!” she exclaimed.

“No, positive truth! It happened this way: I was just about to leave with my chickens under my arm, when in walks this precious Miss Ramsay, right into the room. I could see she was prepared to turn on that cold stare effect again, but I never so much as noticed her existence. And then Aunt Sally bustled in,—she’d been upstairs a minute,—and blest if she didn’t introduce us after all! Said the most complimentary things about yours truly, and how I was staying at my bungalow on the beach; and then she mentioned you, too, and told about you being in the ‘Rest Haven’ bungalow. It struck me that our young lady sort of pricked up her ears at that (though it may have been only imagination). But she just said ‘How-de-do,’ rather carelessly—didn’t offer to shake hands or anything.

“I muttered something about it being a pleasant day and hoping she was enjoying the place. But she only replied, ‘Oh, ya-as, thanks!’ with that awfully English accent, and walked out of the room. Well, anyhow, we’re formally acquainted now (whether either one of us enjoy it or not!), and that may be a useful thing later, perhaps.”

It was still dark the next morning when Leslie awoke from a dreamless sleep—awoke suddenly, with the distinct impression that something unusual was happening. She lay perfectly still for several moments, trying to localize the sensation more definitely. In her room were two windows—a small one facing Curlew’s Nest and a large, broad one facing the sea. Leslie always had this window wide open, and her bed was so placed that she could easily look out of it.

She did so now, and noticed the first light streak of dawn along the east, and a brilliant star so close to the horizon that it seemed to be resting on the edge of the tossing ocean. Then her heart leaped and felt as if it almost turned over—for between her and the light, at the window, she descried the shape of a dark head!

Involuntarily Leslie sprang up to a sitting position. Then the tension relaxed and she drew a deep breath of relief. It was only Rags, standing on his hind legs at the window, his great shaggy head silhouetted against the light. In another instant he had uttered his low, rumbling growl of uneasiness.

“What is it, Rags? What do you see?” she called softly to him. He forsook the window for a moment and trotted over to nuzzle his head on her pillow, but almost immediately hurried back to his post at the window.

“There’s something worrying him!” she thought. “Now I wonder what it can be. Suppose—suppose it were some one around that other bungalow again! I’d better get up and see.”

She rose softly, slipped on a warm dressing-gown and slippers, and peered first out of the side window at Curlew’s Nest. But the darkness was still intense on this side, there was no tell-tale light in the chinks of the shutters, and she was forced, after watching for several moments, to conclude that nothing was amiss in this region.

Then she went to the window facing the ocean, pushed Rags aside a trifle, and cuddled down beside him on the window-seat. The dawn was growing every moment brighter. The streak of gray along the horizon had grown to a broad belt of pink, and very faintly the objects on the beach were beginning to be visible. Rags still rumbled his uneasy growl at intervals, and stared intently at something Leslie’s eye could not yet discern.

It was only by following the direction of his gaze that she presently realized there was something moving on the beach somewhere in front of Curlew’s Nest. Then her heart actually did seem to stop beating for an instant, for in the growing light she at last could distinguish a dark form moving stealthily about by the old log where Rags had dug up the “Dragon’s Secret!”

“Oh! who can it be? And what are they doing there?” she whispered distractedly to Rags. The dog’s only reply was to growl a little louder, and she promptly silenced him.

“Be a good dog, Rags! Don’t make a sound! It will rouse Aunt Marcia, and besides I must see who is there, if possible!” Rags settled down again to a quieter watch with evident reluctance.

With every passing moment, day was approaching nearer, and the scene out over the ocean was one of surprising beauty, had Leslie only been less occupied and had time to observe it. The band of pink had melted into gold, and a thousand rosy little clouds dimpled the sky above. It was now so light that the dark shape on the beach stood out with comparative clearness. It had been bending down and rising up at intervals, and it took little guessing on Leslie’s part to conjecture what was happening. Some one was digging in the spot where the “Dragon’s Secret” had been hidden!

“What if it is Miss Ramsay?” thought Leslie. “Oh, it must be she! Who else could it be? She’s looking for that box, and she can’t find it because we’ve taken it away. Oh, what ought I to do about it? If only Phyllis were here!”

At this moment she realized from the actions of the unknown person that the search was evidently abandoned. The figure stood upright, struck its hands together, and threw away some implement like a board, with which the digging had been done. Then, with a discouraged shrug of the shoulders and a hasty glance back at the two cottages, it turned and walked away down the beach and was shortly out of sight.

And it was then that Leslie sank back on the window seat with a little gasp of sheer astonishment.

The figure was not—could not have been that of Miss Ramsay! It was a man—a tall, burly man; and as he walked away, his gait gave evidence of a decided limp!