Captain Seaford sitting in the sun, and mending nets, was aware that something was causing great, and unusual excitement in his house.

He sat just outside the door, but the sound of hurried footsteps, of eager conversation, of furniture being moved about, betokened something disturbing in the atmosphere.

“Comp’ny coming, or some kind o’ storm brewing!” he muttered with a knowing wink, although no one was near to see the comical grimace.

Mrs. Seaford, usually calm and cheerful, now appeared in the doorway, a frown puckering her forehead, and a troubled look in her eyes.

“I’ve been over to the village,” she said, “and while I’ve been gone, someone has been through the house, opened every drawer, pulled out the contents and strewn them on the floor, and made a general mess that I’ve worked an hour to clear up.  Have you noticed anyone around the place?”

“Haven’t seen a soul,” declared the Captain, “and I’ve been busy right here since before you went out.

“Seems to me I did hear someone moving about at one time, but I’m not even sure of that.”

“Well, whoever it was managed to move about enough to make work for me to clear up,” Mrs. Seaford said.

“There’s only one door to this house so how could anyone get out without passing me?  You must surely be mistaken.”

“The person, whoever it was, didn’t care to pass you coming in, or going out of the house, so climbed through the window.  On his way out, he knocked some plants from the window-sill.  Nothing has been stolen, so I can’t see the object in ransacking the house.”

“’Taint poss’ble you’re nervous, and imagine someone’s been in, is it?” he asked, anxiously scanning her face.

“Imagine?” Mrs. Seaford said.  “Well, come in, and see what you think.  I’ve cleared the worst of it, but here’s enough left to convince you.”

He dropped the net on the sand, and went in.  One look was enough.

“What in the world !” he said, and no more, but his face spoke volumes.

It remained a mystery.  Who would care to disturb the contents of the odd dwelling of the Seafords?  Not a thief, surely, for it was well known that while the genial Captain had, at one time, been well to do, he had, for the past few years, had a struggle for existence.  The old ship’s hulk, inverted, and furnished for a home, held but one treasure, love, and that, priceless as it was, could not be stolen.

Who was the intruder?  How had he come, and how had he vanished?

Dwellers at Cliffmore talked of it, at their homes, at church, and on the beach, but no one could give the slightest clue that might help in detecting the intruder.

Excitement usually lasted regarding one matter until another subject was suggested, when the villagers would turn with fresh interest to the latest bit of news.

Generally, it was a happening of small importance, that gained its prominence from having been frequently described, but one morning something occurred that shook the little fishing village, as Captain Seaford said, “from stem to stern.”

When Mrs. Wilton, the housekeeper at Captain Atherton’s Summer home, “The Cliffs,” arose early one morning, she noticed that the Captain had forgotten the French window that opened on the porch.  It evidently had been open on the evening before, and, by an oversight, had remained open all night.  At a glance she saw that someone had been through the lower part of the house.

Drawers were wide open, their contents strewn upon the floor.

Flowers had been taken from the large jars that held them, and left with their wet foliage and stems lying upon the polished table.

Delicate pieces of china had been lifted from the lower shelves of the china closet, and placed upon the table, the window seats, and even the piano boasted two dainty cups that the visitor, whoever it might be, had placed upon the keyboard.

“Nothing is stolen,” the housekeeper said, in reporting the mischief to Captain Atherton, “and all the queer doin’s are on the first floor.  Do you see that it looks as if the same person that went all over Captain Seaford’s house, has been roving through this one?  Nothing was stolen there, but everything had been handled and pulled around.”

“I’ll go out into the garden and think it over,” he replied.

He left the house, but as he reached the lower step that led from the piazza he saw that the bold intruder, not satisfied with the mischief perpetrated in the house, had tried his hand at the garden.  Beautiful plants had been lifted from their pots and thrown onto the walk, the hose lay beside them, running a stream, the fountain had been set running, and an old broom, used by the gardener, to sweep the walks, lay in the lower basin of the fountain.

The housekeeper followed him out onto the piazza.

“If you please, sir, I’d like just to say that I locked every door and window, except the one that opens onto this piazza, from the library.  I went upstairs, knowing that you were still reading, and thinking you’d like that window open ’til you went to your room for the night, when you’d be sure to shut and lock it.”

John Atherton nodded, and walked along the path.  He knew that the housekeeper was anxious to shift all responsibility from her broad shoulders onto his.

“I guess I left that French window open, so that fault is mine, but who would be interested to rove through a home, pulling things to pieces, and making disorder, solely for the fun of doing it?  Whoever it is, does not care to rob.  It’s a puzzle that must be looked into.”

The children were greatly excited, and inclined to look upon Polly and Rose with envy.

It was interesting to listen while older people talked and argued as to how it happened, and what sort of person played the pranks.  Before the Summer guests had half finished discussing the happening at Captain Atherton’s house, they were again startled.

It was early one morning, a half hour before breakfast would be served, when a big, florid woman came down the stairway to the lower hall, declaring that someone had been in her room, doing a deal of mischief.

“Every article in my bureau drawer has been pulled out and thrown upon the floor, gowns have been removed from my closet, and are piled up on chairs in a heap, and my hats have been taken from their boxes and packed up on my bureau.  Something must be done about it!” she declared in anger, and really one could not blame her.

The proprietor appeared, and promised all sorts of things to pacify the woman and there the matter appeared to end, for search as they would, no trace of the culprit could be found.  The other guests felt uneasy.

“Who could possibly guess whose room will be ransacked next?” said one lady, to another who sat beside her at breakfast, to which the other replied: 

“A few more happenings of this kind, and I’ll pack my trunks, and leave for a place where I can, at least, expect law and order.”

The guests of the hotel found it an interesting theme for conversation, and talked of it morning, noon and night, until old Mr. Pendleton, the invalid, became so tired of hearing about it that his patience at last gave way.

“What a fuss!  What a nuisance of a fuss!  I declare.  Women are upset if their finery is tossed around a bit.  Nothing was stolen, so why complain?  Why get excited?”

No one replied to his outburst.  It was well known that to reply to Mr. Pendleton was apt to provoke a torrent of abuse, so he was allowed to sit in his big chair in the corner of the piazza, looking with sharp, black, bead-like eyes from one woman to the other, silently amused, because he believed that they dared not answer.

He was a tough, wiry old man, not really ill, but believing himself to be an invalid, and enjoying the belief.  Some one had heard a physician say that an event, or happening of any sort that would startle him into quick action would teach him that the health that he believed lost, was still in his possession.

One morning the queerest thing happened, and as it was just after breakfast, all the guests of the hotel were present to share the great excitement.

While the guests were at breakfast, the maids had put their rooms in order, and as it bid fair to be a hot day, nearly everyone decided to spend the morning on the broad piazza.

Mr. Pendleton, as usual, sat in his favorite corner.  He was talking with another man about some distant city that each had often visited.  Evidently there was something about which they could not agree, for their voices rose in angry dispute.

“I’m right in my opinion!” shouted Mr. Pendleton, in his thin, shrill voice.

“And, sir, let me tell you that I am right!” boomed the fat man in a growling bass.

“I’ll get my map and prove what I say!” cried Mr. Pendleton, springing from his chair, and starting toward the hall.

The big man’s laugh made him increase his speed.  The other guests were amused, but they were not prepared for the next thing that happened.

Old Mr. Pendleton came tearing down the stairs, at the risk of breaking his neck, his cheeks flushed, and his small, black eyes blazing.

“It’s an outrage!  It’s disgusting!  It’s not to be endured!” he shouted.  “My room has been entered, and my belongings tossed about!  My pajamas are spread out on the floor as if someone meant to take a pattern of them!  My watch is soaking in the wash bowl, and my brush and comb are each in a slipper.  My topcoat is out of the window and sprawling in the sun on the roof of this piazza, and every neck-tie I own is hanging from the chandelier!  I won’t stand it!”

He paused for breath, and the woman whom he had vexed a few days before, was so unwise as to speak: 

“It might be well for you to realize just now that women are not the only ones who are upset when their finery is tossed about.  As nothing was stolen, why complain?  Why get excited?”

“Madam!  You haven’t the least idea of tact,” he cried.  “If you had you’d-” but before he could complete his speech, the proprietor arrived, and a much harder task he had to appease the wrath of Mr. Pendleton, than that of the fat woman whose room had been entered a few days before.

The mystery might never have been solved but for something that occurred on the following morning.

A room on the second floor had windows looking out upon the sea.  The door stood open, and a maid passing along the hall, paused to look in.  Guests were not in the habit of leaving their room doors wide open.  What she saw made her tip-toe softly away to a screen in the hall.

From her position she could watch the inmate of the room.

That room had been hired by the fat man with the big voice who often talked, and oftener disputed with Mr. Pendleton.

It was easy to touch a button on the wall close beside her, and the bell-boy responded in a few seconds.  The maid held up her finger, at the same time pointing toward the open door, and whispering: 

“Sh !  Go quick and get Mr. Buffington.  Tell him somebody is in his room.  Don’t make a sound here.  I’ll watch while you’re gone.  Rush now!”

Mr. Buffington, big and ponderous, soon appeared, puffing like an engine.  The maid saw him as he appeared above the stairs, and quickly held up her finger, as a signal to him to make no noise.

Puzzled, yet impressed, the big man tip-toed along until he stood in the doorway.

The intruder stood, back toward the door, and for the moment, was so occupied with pulling over the contents of a large trunk that footsteps outside the door were unnoticed.

“You little rascal!”

These words shouted made the intruder actually jump.

“Ah, now, Miss Gwen, how happened ye in there?” said the maid.

Gwen, thoroughly frightened, tried to rush from the room, but it was useless.  The big man filled the doorway.  He did not intend to hurt her, when he firmly grasped her arm, but he did intend to give her a lesson, and he proceeded to do it, walking her along the hall on the way to the stairway.

Usually, Gwen’s boldness was equal to any emergency, but this time she was too frightened to object, to wriggle in the firm grasp, or indeed, to do anything other than allow him to take her wherever he chose, and he chose-the piazza filled with guests.

Mrs. Harcourt, at the farthest end of the piazza, busy with her embroidery, did not look up when the two appeared.

“I found this in my room!” said the angry man.  “Anyone who owns it may claim it. This is what has been entering rooms, and handling other people’s property.”

“Oh, mamma!  Why don’t you come and tell them I don’t do such things!”

Of course Mrs. Harcourt dropped her embroidering frame, and rushed forward, snatching Gwen from the big man’s grasp.

“’Twould be useless, because I caught her just as she had opened my trunk, and was examining all my belongings.  The best thing to do with your smart girl, is to keep her away from hotels, unless you can keep a chain on her to keep her from prowling,” growled Mr. Buffington.

“You don’t understand children!” declared Mrs. Harcourt, as with Gwen, she went up the stairway to her room, to which the big man responded:  “I shouldn’t want to if they’re all like that!”

Of course the piazza was alive with buzzing voices.

“What a perfectly horrid child!”

“I’d be ashamed of her if she were mine, the little imp!”

These and similar remarks were to be heard on all sides.

Gwen had been pert and saucy, bold, and annoying in many ways, but that a little girl could be the person who had boldly entered any house, or any room at the hotel, poking her impudent little nose into any house or room that remained unlocked, was really a surprise.

They had all believed it to be the work of a man, but no one could understand what prompted him to handle every article in the place that he entered, yet never steal a thing.  Now it was easier to understand.  Gwen had everything that love could think of, or that wealth could provide, but her curiosity was great, and she could not keep her mischievous hands off from things belonging to others.

Mrs. Harcourt, angry over what she thought was “outrageous rudeness,” packed her trunks, and in an hour’s time, left the hotel.