With a long, nervous shudder, the Scarlet Car came to a stop, and the lamps bored a round hole in the night, leaving the rest of the encircling world in a chill and silent darkness.

The lamps showed a flickering picture of a country road between high banks covered with loose stones, and overhead, a fringe of pine boughs.  It looked like a colored photograph thrown from a stereopticon in a darkened theater.

From the back of the car the voice of the owner said briskly:  “We will now sing that beautiful ballad entitled ’He Is Sleeping in the Yukon Vale To-night.’  What are you stopping for, Fred?” he asked.

The tone of the chauffeur suggested he was again upon the defensive.

“For water, sir,” he mumbled.

Miss Forbes in the front seat laughed, and her brother in the rear seat, groaned in dismay.

“Oh, for water?” said the owner cordially.  “I thought maybe it was for coal.”

Save a dignified silence, there was no answer to this, until there came a rolling of loose stones and the sound of a heavy body suddenly precipitated down the bank, and landing with a thump in the road.

“He didn’t get the water,” said the owner sadly.

“Are you hurt, Fred?” asked the girl.

The chauffeur limped in front of the lamps, appearing suddenly, like an actor stepping into the limelight.

“No, ma’am,” he said.  In the rays of the lamp, he unfolded a road map and scowled at it.  He shook his head aggrievedly.

“There ought to be a house just about here,” he explained.

“There ought to be a hotel and a garage, and a cold supper, just about here,” said the girl cheerfully.

“That’s the way with those houses,” complained the owner.  “They never stay where they’re put.  At night they go around and visit each other.  Where do you think you are, Fred?”

“I think we’re in that long woods, between Loon Lake and Stoughton on the Boston Pike,” said the chauffeur, “and,” he reiterated, “there ought to be a house somewhere about here ­where we get water.”

“Well, get there, then, and get the water,” commanded the owner.

“But I can’t get there, sir, till I get the water,” returned the chauffeur.

He shook out two collapsible buckets, and started down the shaft of light.

“I won’t be more nor five minutes,” he called.

“I’m going with him,” said the girl, “I’m cold.”

She stepped down from the front seat, and the owner with sudden alacrity vaulted the door and started after her.

“You coming?” he inquired of Ernest Peabody.  But Ernest Peabody being soundly asleep made no reply.  Winthrop turned to Sam.  “Are you coming?” he repeated.

The tone of the invitation seemed to suggest that a refusal would not necessarily lead to a quarrel.

“I am not!” said the brother.  “You’ve kept Peabody and me twelve hours in the open air, and it’s past two, and we’re going to sleep.  You can take it from me that we are going to spend the rest of this night here in this road.”

He moved his cramped joints cautiously, and stretched his legs the full width of the car.

“If you can’t get plain water,” he called, “get club soda.”

He buried his nose in the collar of his fur coat, and the odors of camphor and raccoon skins instantly assailed him, but he only yawned luxuriously and disappeared into the coat as a turtle draws into its shell.  From the woods about him the smell of the pine needles pressed upon him like a drug, and before the footsteps of his companions were lost in the silence he was asleep.  But his sleep was only a review of his waking hours.  Still on either hand rose flying dust clouds and twirling leaves; still on either side raced gray stone walls, telegraph poles, hills rich in autumn colors; and before him a long white road, unending, interminable, stretching out finally into a darkness lit by flashing shop-windows, like open fireplaces, by street lamps, by swinging electric globes, by the blinding searchlights of hundreds of darting trolley cars with terrifying gongs, and then a cold white mist, and again on every side, darkness, except where the four great lamps blazed a path through stretches of ghostly woods.

As the two young men slumbered, the lamps spluttered and sizzled like bacon in a frying-pan, a stone rolled noisily down the bank, a white owl, both appalled and fascinated by the dazzling eyes of the monster blocking the road, hooted, and flapped itself away.  But the men in the car only shivered slightly, deep in the sleep of utter weariness.

In silence the girl and Winthrop followed the chauffeur.  They had passed out of the light of the lamps, and in the autumn mist the electric torch of the owner was as ineffective as a glow-worm.  The mystery of the forest fell heavily upon them.  From their feet the dead leaves sent up a clean, damp odor, and on either side and overhead the giant pine trees whispered and rustled in the night wind.

“Take my coat, too,” said the young man.  “You’ll catch cold.”  He spoke with authority and began to slip the loops from the big horn buttons.  It was not the habit of the girl to consider her health.  Nor did she permit the members of her family to show solicitude concerning it.  But the anxiety of the young man, did not seem to offend her.  She thanked him generously.  “No; these coats are hard to walk in, and I want to walk,” she exclaimed.

“I like to hear the leaves rustle when you kick them, don’t you?  When I was so high, I used to pretend it was wading in the surf.”

The young man moved over to the gutter of the road where the leaves were deepest and kicked violently.  “And the more noise you make,” he said, “the more you frighten away the wild animals.”

The girl shuddered in a most helpless and fascinating fashion.

“Don’t!” she whispered.  “I didn’t mention it, but already I have seen several lions crouching behind the trees.”

“Indeed?” said the young man.  His tone was preoccupied.  He had just kicked a rock, hidden by the leaves, and was standing on one leg.

“Do you mean you don’t believe me?” asked the girl, “or is it that you are merely brave?”

“Merely brave!” exclaimed the young man.  “Massachusetts is so far north for lions,” he continued, “that I fancy what you saw was a grizzly bear.  But I have my trusty electric torch with me, and if there is anything a bear cannot abide, it is to be pointed at by an electric torch.”

“Let us pretend,” cried the girl, “that we are the babes in the wood, and that we are lost.”

“We don’t have to pretend we’re lost,” said the man, “and as I remember it, the babes came to a sad end.  Didn’t they die, and didn’t the birds bury them with leaves?”

“Sam and Mr. Peabody can be the birds,” suggested the girl.

“Sam and Peabody hopping around with leaves in their teeth would look silly,” objected the man, “I doubt if I could keep from laughing.”

“Then,” said the girl, “they can be the wicked robbers who came to kill the babes.”

“Very well,” said the man with suspicious alacrity, “let us be babes.  If I have to die,” he went on heartily, “I would rather die with you than live with any one else.”

When he had spoken, although they were entirely alone in the world and quite near to each other, it was as though the girl could not hear him, even as though he had not spoken at all.  After a silence, the girl said:  “Perhaps it would be better for us to go back to the car.”

“I won’t do it again,” begged the man.

“We will pretend,” cried the girl, “that the car is a van and that we are gypsies, and we’ll build a campfire, and I will tell your fortune.”

“You are the only woman who can,” muttered the young man.

The girl still stood in her tracks.

“You said ­” she began.

“I know,” interrupted the man, “but you won’t let me talk seriously, so I joke.  But some day ­”

“Oh, look!” cried the girl.  “There’s Fred.”

She ran from him down the road.  The young man followed her slowly, his fists deep in the pockets of the great-coat, and kicking at the unoffending leaves.

The chauffeur was peering through a double iron gate hung between square brick posts.  The lower hinge of one gate was broken, and that gate lurched forward leaving an opening.  By the light of the electric torch they could see the beginning of a driveway, rough and weed-grown, lined with trees of great age and bulk, and an unkempt lawn, strewn with bushes, and beyond, in an open place bare of trees and illuminated faintly by the stars, the shadow of a house, black, silent, and forbidding.

“That’s it,” whispered the chauffeur.  “I was here before.  The well is over there.”

The young man gave a gasp of astonishment.

“Why,” he protested, “this is the Carey place!  I should say we were lost.  We must have left the road an hour ago.  There’s not another house within miles.”  But he made no movement to enter.  “Of all places!” he muttered.

“Well, then,” urged the girl briskly, “if there’s no other house, let’s tap Mr. Carey’s well and get on.”

“Do you know who he is?” asked the man.

The girl laughed.  “You don’t need a letter of introduction to take a bucket of water, do you?” she said.

“It’s Philip Carey’s house.  He lives here.”  He spoke in a whisper, and insistently, as though the information must carry some special significance.  But the girl showed no sign of enlightenment.  “You remember the Carey boys?” he urged.  “They left Harvard the year I entered.  They had to leave.  They were quite mad.  All the Careys have been mad.  The boys were queer even then, and awfully rich.  Henry ran away with a girl from a shoe factory in Brockton and lives in Paris, and Philip was sent here.”

“Sent here?” repeated the girl.  Unconsciously her voice also had sunk to a whisper.

“He has a doctor and a nurse and keepers, and they live here all the year round.  When Fred said there were people hereabouts, I thought we might strike them for something to eat, or even to put us up for the night, but, Philip Carey!  I shouldn’t fancy ­”

“I should think not!” exclaimed the girl.

For, a minute the three stood silent, peering through the iron bars.

“And the worst of it is,” went on the young man irritably, “he could give us such good things to eat.”

“It doesn’t look it,” said the girl.

“I know,” continued the man in the same eager whisper.  “But ­who was it was telling me?  Some doctor I know who came down to see him.  He said Carey does himself awfully well, has the house full of bully pictures, and the family plate, and wonderful collections ­things he picked up in the East ­gold ornaments, and jewels, and jade.”

“I shouldn’t think,” said the girl in the same hushed voice, “they would let him live so far from any neighbors with such things in the house.  Suppose burglars ­”

“Burglars!  Burglars would never hear of this place.  How could they? ­Even his friends think it’s just a private madhouse.”

The girl shivered and drew back from the gate.

Fred coughed apologetically.

“I’ve heard of it,” he volunteered.  “There was a piece in the Sunday Post.  It said he eats his dinner in a diamond crown, and all the walls is gold, and two monkeys wait on table with gold ­”

“Nonsense!” said the man sharply.  “He eats like any one else and dresses like any one else.  How far is the well from the house?”

“It’s purty near,” said the chauffeur.

“Pretty near the house, or pretty near here?”

“Just outside the kitchen; and it makes a creaky noise.”

“You mean you don’t want to go?”

Fred’s answer was unintelligible.

“You wait here with Miss Forbes,” said the young man.  “And I’ll get the water.”

“Yes, sir!” said Fred, quite distinctly.

“No, sir!” said Miss Forbes, with equal distinctness.  “I’m not going to be left here alone ­with all these trees.  I’m going with you.”

“There may be a dog,” suggested the young man, “or, I was thinking if they heard me prowling about, they might take a shot ­just for luck.  Why don’t you go back to the car with Fred?”

“Down that long road in the dark?” exclaimed the girl.  “Do you think I have no imagination?”

The man in front, the girl close on his heels, and the boy with the buckets following, crawled through the broken gate, and moved cautiously up the gravel driveway.

Within fifty feet of the house the courage of the chauffeur returned.

“You wait here,” he whispered, “and if I wake ’em up, you shout to ’em that it’s all right, that it’s only me.”

“Your idea being,” said the young man, “that they will then fire at me.  Clever lad.  Run along.”

There was a rustling of the dead weeds, and instantly the chauffeur was swallowed in the encompassing shadows.

Miss Forbes leaned toward the young man.

“Do you see a light in that lower story?” she whispered.

“No,” said the man.  “Where?”

After a pause the girl answered:  “I can’t see it now, either.  Maybe I didn’t see it.  It was very faint ­just a glow ­it might have been phosphorescence.”

“It might,” said the man.  He gave a shrug of distaste.  “The whole place is certainly old enough and decayed enough.”

For a brief space they stood quite still, and at once, accentuated by their own silence, the noises of the night grew in number and distinctness.  A slight wind had risen and the boughs of the pines rocked restlessly, making mournful complaint; and at their feet the needles dropping in a gentle desultory shower had the sound of rain in springtime.  From every side they were startled by noises they could not place.  Strange movements and rustlings caused them to peer sharply into the shadows; footsteps, that seemed to approach, and, then, having marked them, skulk away; branches of bushes that suddenly swept together, as though closing behind some one in stealthy retreat.  Although they knew that in the deserted garden they were alone, they felt that from the shadows they were being spied upon, that the darkness of the place was peopled by malign presences.

The young man drew a cigar from his case and put it unlit between his teeth.

“Cheerful, isn’t it?” he growled.  “These dead leaves make it damp as a tomb.  If I’ve seen one ghost, I’ve seen a dozen.  I believe we’re standing in the Carey family’s graveyard.”

“I thought you were brave,” said the girl.

“I am,” returned the young man, “very brave.  But if you had the most wonderful girl on earth to take care of in the grounds of a madhouse at two in the morning, you’d be scared too.”

He was abruptly surprised by Miss Forbes laying her hand firmly upon his shoulder, and turning him in the direction of the house.  Her face was so near his that he felt the uneven fluttering of her breath upon his cheek.

“There is a man,” she said, “standing behind that tree.”

By the faint light of the stars he saw, in black silhouette, a shoulder and head projecting from beyond the trunk of a huge oak, and then quickly withdrawn.  The owner of the head and shoulder was on the side of the tree nearest to themselves, his back turned to them, and so deeply was his attention engaged that he was unconscious of their presence.

“He is watching the house,” said the girl.  “Why is he doing that?”

“I think it’s Fred,” whispered the man.  “He’s afraid to go for the water.  That’s as far as he’s gone.”  He was about to move forward when from the oak tree there came a low whistle.  The girl and the man stood silent and motionless.  But they knew it was useless; that they had been overheard.  A voice spoke cautiously.

“That you?” it asked.

With the idea only of gaining time, the young man responded promptly and truthfully.  “Yes,” he whispered.

“Keep to the right of the house,” commanded the voice.

The young man seized Miss Forbes by the wrist and moving to the right drew her quickly with him.  He did not stop until they had turned the corner of the building, and were once more hidden by the darkness.

“The plot thickens,” he said.  “I take it that that fellow is a keeper, or watchman.  He spoke as though it were natural there should be another man in the grounds, so there’s probably two of them, either to keep Carey in, or to keep trespassers out.  Now, I think I’ll go back and tell him that Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch a pail of water, and that all they want is to be allowed to get the water, and go.”

“Why should a watchman hide behind a tree?” asked the girl.  “And why ­”

She ceased abruptly with a sharp cry of fright.  “What’s that?” she whispered.

“What’s what?” asked the young man startled.  “What did you hear?”

“Over there,” stammered the girl.  “Something ­that ­groaned.”

“Pretty soon this will get on my nerves,” said the man.  He ripped open his greatcoat and reached under it.  “I’ve been stoned twice, when there were women in the car,” he said, apologetically, “and so now at night I carry a gun.”  He shifted the darkened torch to his left hand, and, moving a few yards, halted to listen.  The girl, reluctant to be left alone, followed slowly.  As he stood immovable there came from the leaves just beyond him the sound of a feeble struggle, and a strangled groan.  The man bent forward and flashed the torch.  He saw stretched rigid on the ground a huge wolf-hound.  Its legs were twisted horribly, the lips drawn away from the teeth, the eyes glazed in an agony of pain.  The man snapped off the light.  “Keep back!” he whispered to the girl.  He took her by the arm and ran with her toward the gate.

“Who was it?” she begged.

“It was a dog,” he answered.  “I think ­”

He did not tell her what he thought.

“I’ve got to find out what the devil has happened to Fred!” he said.  “You go back to the car.  Send your brother here on the run.  Tell him there’s going to be a rough-house.  You’re not afraid to go?”

“No,” said the girl.

A shadow blacker than the night rose suddenly before them, and a voice asked sternly but quietly:  “What are you doing here?”

The young man lifted his arm clear of the girl, and shoved her quickly from him.  In his hand she felt the pressure of the revolver.

“Well,” he replied truculently, “and what are you doing here?”

“I am the night watchman,” answered the voice.  “Who are you?”

It struck Miss Forbes if the watchman knew that one of the trespassers was a woman he would be at once reassured, and she broke in quickly: 

“We have lost our way,” she said pleasantly.  “We came here ­”

She found herself staring blindly down a shaft of light.  For an instant the torch held her, and then from her swept over the young man.

“Drop that gun!” cried the voice.  It was no longer the same voice; it was now savage and snarling.  For answer the young man pressed the torch in his left hand, and, held in the two circles of light, the men surveyed each other.  The newcomer was one of unusual bulk and height.  The collar of his overcoat hid his mouth, and his derby hat was drawn down over his forehead, but what they saw showed an intelligent, strong face, although for the moment it wore a menacing scowl.  The young man dropped his revolver into his pocket.

“My automobile ran dry,” he said; “we came in here to get some water.  My chauffeur is back there somewhere with a couple of buckets.  This is Mr. Carey’s place, isn’t it?”

“Take that light out of my eyes!” said the watchman.

“Take your light out of my eyes,” returned the young man.  “You can see we’re not ­we don’t mean any harm.”

The two lights disappeared simultaneously, and then each, as though worked by the same hand, sprang forth again.

“What did you think I was going to do?” the young man asked.  He laughed and switched off his torch.

But the one the watchman held in his hand still moved from the face of the girl to that of the young man.

“How’d you know this was the Carey house?” he demanded.  “Do you know Mr. Carey?”

“No, but I know this is his house.”  For a moment from behind his mask of light the watchman surveyed them in silence.  Then he spoke quickly: 

“I’ll take you to him,” he said, “if he thinks it’s all right, it’s all right.”

The girl gave a protesting cry.  The young man burst forth indignantly: 

“You will not!” he cried.  “Don’t be an idiot!  You talk like a Tenderloin cop.  Do we look like second-story workers?”

“I found you prowling around Mr. Carey’s grounds at two in the morning,” said the watchman sharply, “with a gun in your hand.  My job is to protect this place, and I am going to take you both to Mr. Carey.”

Until this moment the young man could see nothing save the shaft of light and the tiny glowing bulb at its base; now into the light there protruded a black revolver.

“Keep your hands up, and walk ahead of me to the house,” commanded the watchman.  “The woman will go in front.”

The young man did not move.  Under his breath he muttered impotently, and bit at his lower lip.

“See here,” he said, “I’ll go with you, but you shan’t take this lady in front of that madman.  Let her go to her car.  It’s only a hundred yards from here; you know perfectly well she ­”

“I know where your car is, all right,” said the watchman steadily, “and I’m not going to let you get away in it till Mr. Carey’s seen you.”  The revolver motioned forward.  Miss Forbes stepped in front of it and appealed eagerly to the young man.

“Do what he says,” she urged.  “It’s only his duty.  Please!  Indeed, I don’t mind.”  She turned to the watchman.  “Which way do you want us to go?” she asked.

“Keep in the light,” he ordered.

The light showed the broad steps leading to the front entrance of the house, and in its shaft they climbed them, pushed open the unlocked door, and stood in a small hallway.  It led into a greater hall beyond.  By the electric lights still burning they noted that the interior of the house was as rich and well cared for as the outside was miserable.  With a gesture for silence the watchman motioned them into a small room on the right of the hallway.  It had the look of an office, and was apparently the place in which were conducted the affairs of the estate.

In an open grate was a dying fire; in front of it a flat desk covered with papers and japanned tin boxes.

“You stay here till I fetch Mr. Carey, and the servants,” commanded the watchman.  “Don’t try to get out, and,” he added menacingly, “don’t make no noise.”  With his revolver he pointed at the two windows.  They were heavily barred.  “Those bars keep Mr. Carey in,” he said, “and I guess they can keep you in, too.  The other watchman,” he added, “will be just outside this door.”  But still he hesitated, glowering with suspicion; unwilling to trust them alone.  His face lit with an ugly smile.

“Mr. Carey’s very bad to-night,” he said; “he won’t keep his bed and he’s wandering about the house.  If he found you by yourselves, he might ­”

The young man, who had been staring at the fire, swung sharply on his heel.

“Get-to-hell-out-of-here!” he said.  The watchman stepped into the hall and was cautiously closing the door when a man sprang lightly up the front steps.  Through the inch crack left by the open door the trespassers heard the newcomers eager greeting.

“I can’t get him right!” he panted.  “He’s snoring like a hog.”

The watchman exclaimed savagely: 

“He’s fooling you.”  He gasped.  “I didn’t mor’ nor slap him.  Did you throw water on him?”

“I drowned him!” returned the other.  “He never winked.  I tell You we gotta walk, and damn quick!”

“Walk!” The watchman cursed him foully.  “How far could we walk?  I’ll bring him to,” he swore.  “He’s scared of us, and he’s shamming.”  He gave a sudden start of alarm.  “That’s it, he’s shamming.  You fool!  You shouldn’t have left him.”

There was the swift patter of retreating footsteps, and then a sudden halt, and they heard the watchman command:  “Go back, and keep the other two till I come.”

The next instant from the outside the door was softly closed upon them.

It had no more than shut when to the surprise of Miss Forbes the young man, with a delighted and vindictive chuckle, sprang to the desk and began to drum upon it with his fingers.  It were as though he were practising upon a typewriter.

“He missed these,” he muttered jubilantly.  The girl leaned forward.  Beneath his fingers she saw, flush with the table, a roll of little ivory buttons.  She read the words “Stables,” “Servants’ hall.”  She raised a pair of very beautiful and very bewildered eyes.

“But if he wanted the servants, why didn’t the watchman do that?” she asked.

“Because he isn’t a watchman,” answered the young man.  “Because he’s robbing this house.”

He took the revolver from his encumbering greatcoat, slipped it in his pocket, and threw the coat from him.  He motioned the girl into a corner.  “Keep out of the line of the door,” he ordered.

“I don’t understand,” begged the girl.

“They came in a car,” whispered the young man.  “It’s broken down, and they can’t get away.  When the big fellow stopped us and I flashed my torch, I saw their car behind him in the road with the front off and the lights out.  He’d seen the lamps of our car, and now they want it to escape in.  That’s why he brought us here ­to keep us away from our car.”

“And Fred!” gasped the girl.  “Fred’s hurt!”

“I guess Fred stumbled into the big fellow,” assented the young man, “and the big fellow put him out; then he saw Fred was a chauffeur, and now they are trying to bring him to, so that he can run the car for them.  You needn’t worry about Fred. He’s been in four smash-ups.”

The young man bent forward to listen, but from no part of the great house came any sign.  He exclaimed angrily.

“They must be drugged,” he growled.  He ran to the desk and made vicious jabs at the ivory buttons.

“Suppose they’re out of order!” he whispered.

There was the sound of leaping feet.  The young man laughed nervously.

“No, it’s all right,” he cried.  “They’re coming!”

The door flung open and the big burglar and a small, rat-like figure of a man burst upon them; the big one pointing a revolver.

“Come with me to your car!” he commanded.  “You’ve got to take us to Boston.  Quick, or I’ll blow your face off.”

Although the young man glared bravely at the steel barrel and the lifted trigger, poised a few inches from his eyes, his body, as though weak with fright, shifted slightly and his feet made a shuffling noise upon the floor.  When the weight of his body was balanced on the ball of his right foot, the shuffling ceased.  Had the burglar lowered his eyes, the manoeuvre to him would have been significant, but his eyes were following the barrel of the revolver.

In the mind of the young man the one thought uppermost was that he must gain time, but, with a revolver in his face, he found his desire to gain time swiftly diminishing.  Still, when he spoke, it was with deliberation.

“My chauffeur ­” he began slowly.

The burglar snapped at him like a dog.  “To hell with your chauffeur!” he cried.  “Your chauffeur has run away.  You’ll drive that car yourself, or I’ll leave you here with the top of your head off.”

The face of the young man suddenly flashed with pleasure.  His eyes, looking past the burglar to the door, lit with relief.

“There’s the chauffeur now!” he cried.

The big burglar for one instant glanced over his right shoulder.

For months at a time, on Soldiers Field, the young man had thrown himself at human targets, that ran and dodged and evaded him, and the hulking burglar, motionless before him, was easily his victim.

He leaped at him, his left arm swinging like a scythe, and, with the impact of a club, the blow caught the burglar in the throat.

The pistol went off impotently; the burglar with a choking cough sank in a heap on the floor.

The young man tramped over him and upon him, and beat the second burglar with savage, whirlwind blows.  The second burglar, shrieking with pain, turned to fly, and a fist, that fell upon him where his bump of honesty should have been, drove his head against the lintel of the door.

At the same instant from the belfry on the roof there rang out on the night the sudden tumult of a bell; a bell that told as plainly as though it clamored with a human tongue, that the hand that rang it was driven with fear; fear of fire, fear of thieves, fear of a mad-man with a knife in his hand running amuck; perhaps at that moment creeping up the belfry stairs.

From all over the house there was the rush of feet and men’s voices, and from the garden the light of dancing lanterns.  And while the smoke of the revolver still hung motionless, the open door was crowded with half-clad figures.  At their head were two young men.  One who had drawn over his night clothes a serge suit, and who, in even that garb, carried an air of authority; and one, tall, stooping, weak of face and light-haired, with eyes that blinked and trembled behind great spectacles and who, for comfort, hugged about him a gorgeous kimono.  For an instant the newcomers stared stupidly through the smoke at the bodies on the floor breathing stertorously, at the young man with the lust of battle still in his face, at the girl shrinking against the wall.  It was the young man in the serge suit who was the first to move.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“These are burglars,” said the owner of the car.  “We happened to be passing in my automobile, and ­”

The young man was no longer listening.  With an alert, professional manner he had stooped over the big burglar.  With his thumb he pushed back the man’s eyelids, and ran his fingers over his throat and chin.  He felt carefully of the point of the chin, and glanced up.

“You’ve broken the bone,” he said.

“I just swung on him,” said the young man.  He turned his eyes, and suggested the presence of the girl.

At the same moment the man in the kimono cried nervously:  “Ladies present, ladies present.  Go put your clothes on, everybody; put your clothes on.”

For orders the men in the doorway looked to the young man with the stern face.

He scowled at the figure in the kimono.

“You will please go to your room, sir,” he said.  He stood up, and bowed to Miss Forbes.  “I beg your pardon,” he asked, “you must want to get out of this.  Will you please go into the library?”

He turned to the robust youths in the door, and pointed at the second burglar.

“Move him out of the way,” he ordered.

The man in the kimono smirked and bowed.

“Allow me,” he said; “allow me to show you to the library.  This is no place for ladies.”

The young man with the stern face frowned impatiently.

“You will please return to your room, sir,” he repeated.

With an attempt at dignity the figure in the kimono gathered the silk robe closer about him.

“Certainly,” he said.  “If you think you can get on without me ­I will retire,” and lifting his bare feet mincingly, he tiptoed away.  Miss Forbes looked after him with an expression of relief, of repulsion, of great pity.

The owner of the car glanced at the young man with the stern face, and raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

The young man had taken the revolver from the limp fingers of the burglar and was holding it in his hand.  Winthrop gave what was half a laugh and half a sigh of compassion.

“So, that’s Carey?” he said.

There was a sudden silence.  The young man with the stern face made no answer.  His head was bent over the revolver.  He broke it open, and spilled the cartridges into his palm.  Still he made no answer.  When he raised his head, his eyes were no longer stern, but wistful, and filled with an inexpressible loneliness.

“No, I am Carey,” he said.

The one who had blundered stood helpless, tongue-tied, with no presence of mind beyond knowing that to explain would offend further.

The other seemed to feel for him more than for himself.  In a voice low and peculiarly appealing, he continued hurriedly.

“He is my doctor,” he said.  “He is a young man, and he has not had many advantages ­his manner is not ­I find we do not get on together.  I have asked them to send me some one else.”  He stopped suddenly, and stood unhappily silent.  The knowledge that the strangers were acquainted with his story seemed to rob him of his earlier confidence.  He made an uncertain movement as though to relieve them of his presence.

Miss Forbes stepped toward him eagerly.

“You told me I might wait in the library,” she said.  “Will you take me there?”

For a moment the man did not move, but stood looking at the young and beautiful girl, who, with a smile, hid the compassion in her eyes.

“Will you go?” he asked wistfully.

“Why not?” said the girl.

The young man laughed with pleasure.

“I am unpardonable,” he said.  “I live so much alone ­that I forget.”  Like one who, issuing from a close room, encounters the morning air, he drew a deep, happy breath.  “It has been three years since a woman has been in this house,” he said simply.  “And I have not even thanked you,” he went on, “nor asked you if you are cold,” he cried remorsefully, “or hungry.  How nice it would be if you would say you are hungry.”

The girl walked beside him, laughing lightly, and, as they disappeared into the greater hall beyond, Winthrop heard her cry:  “You never robbed your own ice-chest?  How have you kept from starving?  Show me it, and we’ll rob it together.”

The voice of their host rang through the empty house with a laugh like that of an eager, happy child.

“Heavens!” said the owner of the car, “isn’t she wonderful!” But neither the prostrate burglars, nor the servants, intent on strapping their wrists together, gave him any answer.

As they were finishing the supper filched from the ice-chest, Fred was brought before them from the kitchen.  The blow the burglar had given him was covered with a piece of cold beef-steak, and the water thrown on him to revive him was thawing from his leather breeches.  Mr. Carey expressed his gratitude, and rewarded him beyond the avaricious dreams even of a chauffeur.

As the three trespassers left the house, accompanied by many pails of water, the girl turned to the lonely figure in the doorway and waved her hand.

“May we come again?” she called.

But young Mr. Carey did not trust his voice to answer.  Standing erect, with folded arms, in dark silhouette in the light of the hall, he bowed his head.

Deaf to alarm bells, to pistol shots, to cries for help, they found her brother and Ernest Peabody sleeping soundly.

“Sam is a charming chaperon,” said the owner of the car.

With the girl beside him, with Fred crouched, shivering, on the step, he threw in the clutch; the servants from the house waved the emptied buckets in salute, and the great car sprang forward into the awakening day toward the golden dome over the Boston Common.  In the rear seat Peabody shivered and yawned, and then sat erect.

“Did you get the water?” he demanded, anxiously.

There was a grim silence.

“Yes,” said the owner of the car patiently.  “You needn’t worry any longer.  We got the water.”