"There you have it!" I babbled hysterically. "Now, how do you know but what _we_ are burglars? . . . This whole house a Den of Thieves? . . . The impeccable Mr. George Keets there at your right,--no more, no less, than exactly what he looks,--an almost perfect replica of a stage 'Raffles'?" "Eh? What's that?" bridled George Keets. "Dragging you here to this house the way we did," I floundered desperately. "Quite helpless as you were. So--so----" "'Spifflicated,'" prompted the May Girl. The word on her lips was like the flutter of a rose petal. With a little gasp of astonishment young Kennilworth rose from his place, and dragging his chair in one hand, his plate of fruit in the other, moved round to the May Girl's elbow to finish his breakfast. Like a palm trying to patronize a pine tree, his crisp exotic young ego swept down across her young serenity. "Really, I don't quite make you out," he said. "I think I shall have to study you!" "Study--me!" reflected the May Girl. "Make a lesson about me, you mean! On a holiday?" The vaguely dawning dimple in her smooth cheek faded suddenly out again. The Stranger--Allan John--it seemed, was rising from the table. "If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go to my room," he explained. "I'm still pretty shaky. I'm----" But half way to the stairs, as though drawn by some irresistible impulse, he turned, and fumbling his way back across the dining-room opened the big glass doors direct into the storm. Tripping ever so slightly on the threshold he lurched forward in a single wavering step. In an instant the May Girl was at his side, her steadying hand held out to his! Recovering his balance almost instantly he did not however release her hand, but still holding tight to it, indescribably puzzled, indescribably helpless, stood shoulder to shoulder with her, staring out into the tempestuous scene. Lashed by the wind the May Girl's mop of hair blew gold, blew gray, across his rain-drenched eyes. Blurred in a gusty flutter of white skirts his whole tragic, sagging figure loomed suddenly like some weird, symbolic shadow against the girl's bright beauty. Frankly the picture startled me! "S-s-h!" warned my Husband. "It won't hurt her any! He doesn't even know whether she's young or old." "Or a boy--or a girl," interposed George Keets, a bit drily. "Or an imp or a saint," grinned young Kennilworth. "Or----"