"They are in this dream," I told her. "You see I dreamed--if you want to call it that--that a certain American ship blew up in the North Pacific. The trouble is that the public hasn't been told that there is such a ship, like that 'Old Nameless' in the Solomons, and that the Navy Department doesn't know what happened to it. _I_ believe that it did blow up. Harcourt believes my story, in the main, but from the F.B.I. angle they have to check up on whether I'm not part of an Axis spy-ring which could have caused the explosion. If I could only remember where I was and what I was doing the week before I could clear myself." Her face lighted and she relaxed. "Oh, is _that_ all?" she exclaimed. "I _know_ you couldn't have done anything like that. All you've probably been doing is to go off with one of those silly girls of yours to some out-of-the-way place. That ought to be easy to check, even if you registered under a false name. For the first time, you know," she added, "I'm almost _glad_ you've been chasing all those stupid blondes of yours. It will make it easy to establish your alias." "Alibi," I corrected her. "Let me fix you another drink. From now on," I added, "there are going to be no more blondes or red-heads. I like Arthurjean Briggs--she's named Arthurjean for her father and mother. It's one word like Marylou or Honeychile--but she's more like a friend than a--oh--you know. You saw her. But I guess you're right. I must have been chasing around so much my mind got tangled up in itself and sort of blew a fuse. If I can't get my memory straightened out soon I'll look up a psychiatrist and see if he can't fix me." "You know, Winnie--" Germaine began and then fell silent. "Yes, Jimmie?" She turned towards me and smiled rather wistfully. "You know, I was going to say that you and I--perhaps--Well, it's so long since we've been really--oh--_close_ to each other. I wondered--" "You mean that perhaps we ought to patch things up between us?" "Isn't that what a wife's for?" she asked. "I mean--I mean when things get difficult it ought--there ought to be _one_ person to whom you could turn." I slipped my arm around her and drew her close to me on the lounge. She lowered her face against my coat and I could feel her shaking. "You're crying!" I said. "You mustn't cry." "Oh, Winnie, I've been so alone--so--" I raised her face to mine and kissed her, tasting the wet, salt tears. Her lips were warm and soft against mine. Suddenly she pressed herself against me and responded to my kiss so fiercely that we were both startled. We sprang apart, almost guiltily. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh--you haven't kissed me like that--" She raised her lips again and this time we held it. * * * * *