By the time the race was over there wasn't enough breath left in either of them to talk about anything. Merged in the sand again, [122] scorched by the sun, fanned by a great clattery clump of scrub palmetto, they curled up in half a shadow and fell asleep. It was Jaffrey Bretton who woke first. "Poor--devil," was the first phrase on his lips. "Who?" yawned Daphne. "I!" said her father quite quickly. "I was worrying about my dog." "O--h," yawned Daphne. "Oh--yourself!" yawned her father. It was Daphne who woke first the next time, and she woke with her fingers clutching hard into her father's startled shoulder. "Oh, Old-Dad!" she cried. "There's a lady walking on my beach!" Heavy with sleep, Jaffrey Bretton struggled laboriously upward and shook his white hair from his eyes just in time to face the intruder as she rounded the nearest cactus thicket. "Why--why--good afternoon, Lady-Walking-on-our-Beach!" he said. The scream that the lady gave, though distinctly shrill was yet quite unmistakably a [123] khaki scream, the scream, as it were, of a sportswoman, a mere matter of atavism only. "_Oh_! How you startled me!" she cried. It was at least very becoming to the lady to be startled, though all around the edges of the frank confession her lips showed still their stark, atavic pallor, and the clever gray eyes that searched the two blue-jersied figures before her were rather extravagantly dilated. "Is--is this Martha's Island?" she questioned just a little bit abruptly. "It is not!" said Jaffrey Bretton with some coldness. "Martha is a crazy lady. Do we look to you like crazy ladies?" "Oh, no--of course not," flushed the intruder. "Only--only it is so awfully hard sometimes to place people without their clothes." "Without their clothes?" flared Daphne. "Why these are our clothes! Our very own clothes!" As though in indisputable proof of the assertion she edged even closer to her father's side and began to stroke such shoulder and such sleeve as her father's swimming suit boasted. But, gentle as the gesture was, it only served [124] somehow to increase the Intruding Lady's nervousness. "Why--of course--I--I didn't mean that," she stammered. "It's only that that running on you so suddenly the way I did, I----" With a gesture of sheer helplessness she threw out her hands. "Well, there _are_ so many queer people down here!" she cried. "Fanatics and fruit growers and runaway people--and--and fanatics!" In an access of bewilderment her glance swept out across Daphne's slim, nymph-like loveliness to the wild island scene all around them, and back again to Jaffrey Bretton's distinctly sophistcated eyes. "For all I know," she affirmed with a palpable effort at lightness, "_you_ may be fugitives from justice!" "Call us rather--fugitives from injustice," bowed Jaffrey Bretton, with the faintest possible smile.