“Very well. It’s your game to play. Good luck! Oh, hold on. Have you got a gun?” “No, mine hasn’t come yet.” “Better take mine.” “You must have been having bad dreams,” said the other lightly. “What sleep I’ve had has banished the professor’s cretaceous jub-jub bird from my mental premises. Anyhow, I don’t think a revolver would be much use against it, do you?” “Take it, anyway,” urged Colton. “All right,” assented the reporter. “Much obliged. I’ll take it along if you want me to.” The doctor handed out his long Colt’s. “Well, good luck!” he said again, and with a strange impulse he stretched out his hand. Haynes seemed a little startled; but he said nothing, as he shook hands, except: “See you in a couple of hours, then.” Although it was only six o’clock, Dick Colton could not get back to sleep. A sound of splashing water from Everard’s room showed that he too was up. Dick was dressing with those long pauses between each process which are the surest sign of profound thought in the masculine creature, when he heard a knock on Haynes’ door followed by the music of Helga Johnston’s voice. “Petit Père. Oh, Petit Père!” Before Dick could reach the door and explain, the low call came again: “Petit Père! Oh, please wake up!” “Miss Helga,” began Dick, thrusting out his head. “Oh, Dr. Colton, I’ve—I’ve had such a dreadful dream again. I want to speak to Mr. Haynes.” “He started for the beach fifteen minutes ago.” “Oh-h-h!” It was a long, shuddering gasp. The next instant he heard her swift footsteps patter downstairs, through the living-room and out upon the porch. A few minutes later Everard Colton in trousers and shirt came into the room. “Was that Helga’s voice I heard?” “Yes.” “Anything wrong?” asked the young man anxiously. “Haynes has gone to the beach, and she has followed. She’s had a dream-warning or some fool thing”—Colton had the professional impatience of the supernatural—“and would be hysterical if she was of that type.” Everard exploded into a curse. “And you let her go alone?” “Am I likely to do a cross-country run in my underclothes?” demanded his brother. The young man was down the stairs in two leaps, and out upon the lawn. Helga’s fair head shone far to the south on a hillock’s top. She was running. “Take the cross-cut!” shouted Dick Colton. “You can head her off at Graveyard Point. I’ll follow.” There were few men of his time who could keep near Everard Colton to the end of a mile run. Heartbreaking country this was, with its ups and downs; but the young man had the instinct of a cross-country runner, and subconsciously his feet led him along the easiest course. When he came out on the summit of the cliff above Graveyard Point, his eyes, eagerly searching, saw the flying figure of the girl he loved coming down the beach, a quarter of a mile away. “Helga, Helga!” he shouted. “I’m coming to you!”