"What on earth!" I exclaimed, disengaging myself. The man was looking from one to the other of us, mutely. "I'm Summer Storm and this is my husband, Wyn Storm, and we live at 138 March Street," she said, all in a rush. "Oh, Don, I'm sorry you don't know us any more, but I should have known from the way Wyn was acting and everything that's going to happen...." "Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I interrupted. "I don't know you. How did you know my name?" She didn't answer, but just stood there, looking at me intently. I averted my eyes. I was beginning to recover from shock enough to be embarrassed. "How about this?" I asked the man. "Why should I know you, and where do you come from?" "I'm afraid I don't know," he replied, sounding perfectly honest about it. "I'm afraid I don't remember anything. Do you suppose I have amnesia?" "That's possible," I said. "But your wife seems not to be bothered with it. All right. Summer Storm and Wyn Storm it is--but the names are too trite in these circumstances not to be false. Both of you had better get back in the shrubbery while I get some help." I found the policeman on the Main Street beat. As I thought, it was my old friend, Gus Adams. He accompanied me back to the park, the rain gleaming on his slicker. "They picked a good address to lie about," he said, when I had explained the situation to him on the way. "The house at 138 March Street is vacant." "They're probably spooners who got caught by that lightning bolt and are too ashamed to give their right names," I said. "If they had any clothes, I don't know what happened to them. I didn't see any in those bushes." "What do you figure I ought to do with them, Mr. Gracey?" he asked. "They look like decent youngsters," I said. "If it's all right with you, we'll take them out to my house until they're ready to let me help them get back where they came from." "You're taking a chance," he grunted. But we wrapped the woman in his slicker and tied my best suit coat around the man's waist. Gus called the town's only patrol car and had them drive us out to my house. I suppose nudists and doctors eventually reach the point where they look on nakedness as normal. But, to me, my "orphans of the storm" looked a lot more like human beings when I had them clothed in a couple of my old sweaters and some slacks. They might have been twins. For all I knew, they were, in spite of the woman's claim that they were man and wife. Their eyes were an identical sky-blue, their hair an identical pale, wavy gold. Her hair was cut short, his needed cutting, so they were a good match. I judged their ages to be about 23, although I've been over-estimating young women's ages since I passed 30. "Now, suppose you tell me where you're from and what this is all about," I said sternly, when they had finished eating the meal I had rustled up for them.