"Why--my--my story," stammered Daphne. "It wouldn't be quite honorable not to, would it?" Desperately the young lips tried to recapture some kind of a humorous smile. "Tell--her I mean--quite frankly, you [133] know--that I'm more or less of a notorious character." In a single quiver the young mouth stripped itself of even this futile attempt at mirth. "No decent woman would ever _choose_ to associate with me again, the President said." In an outburst of quite irrelevant temper, Jaffrey Bretton swung around to wait for the Intruding Lady. "Is this a tortoise race?" he demanded accusingly. "Are we to die here in our tracks of hunger and thirst?" Without so much as a "By your leave" he snatched the Intruding Lady's hand in his spare one and plunged onward again. As they raced across the spongy, tide-swept sand bar just ahead of a huge blue wave and sighted the white tents at last, he tossed back his head with a whoop of extravagant mirth. "Whatever in the world have I done," he demanded of earth, air, sky, sea, "that I should be marooned on a coral island with _two_ beautiful ladies--one of whom is my daughter and the other the bride of another man?" "S-s-h!" warned Daphne with a twitch of the hand. "There's a stranger at the camp [134] fire!" Dropping her father's fingers and quite ignoring the other lady she ran swiftly ahead, and dodging into a thick clump of beach-grass crouched down like a young Indian to study out the mystery. "Oh, Old-Dad!" she signaled back with her finger on her lips, "it's the--sissiest-looking man! Such queer little narrow shoulders! And the mooniest eyes! And a beard like a silk hand kerchief!" "Must be the Outlaw," said her father "The Outlaw?" protested Daphne. "Oh, dear me!" she cried suddenly. "He's seen me! And he's skulking off through the grass with a great roll of furs or something under his arm! Quick! Maybe we're robbed!" Darting out into full view on the beach she stood poised for a single uncertain instant while the Outlaw, as though by magic, vanished from sight. "Robbed! Oh no," laughed her father. "It's your bathing suit! Next to being the honestest man I know this particular Outlaw happens to be also the most squeamishly modest. Creep around the back way by the [135] palmettos," he ordered, "and put on a skirt! I want to see him!" Dropping the Brown Khaki Lady's fingers he cupped his hands to his mouth and began to halloo across the little distance. "Hi there, Alliman!" he called. "How-do, Mr. Bretton!" came the soft-voiced answer very cautiously, then, from the thicket the man himself emerged with the roll of wildcat skins still clutched in his arms. Daphne certainly had not exaggerated the gentleness of him, nor the narrow shoulders, nor the silky old-fashioned brown beard, nor the bland eyes. "Come to trade me those cat skins for some pipe tobacco and oranges?" smiled Jaffrey Bretton. "I--don't--mind," drawled the Outlaw.