face to face with the girl who was in his thoughts.

There was a ripple of excited laughter; a bag was thrust into his
hand, and like a bird escaped from a cage, Joan darted past him into
the hall.

"I've done it," she cried, "I've done it!" And she broke into a
dance.

Martin shut the door, put the bulging suit-case on a chair and
watched the girl as she whirled about the hall, as graceful as a
water sprite, with eyes alight with mischief and animation. The
sight of her was so bewitching, the fact that she had come to him
for help so good, that his curiosity to know what it was that she
had done fell away.

Suddenly she came to a breathless stop and caught hold of his arm.
"Bolt the door, Marty," she said, "quickly, quickly! They may send
after me when they find I've got away. I'll never go back, never,
never!"

All the spirit of romance in the boy's nature flamed. This was a
great adventure. He had become a knight errant, the rescuer of a
damsel in distress. He shot the bolts back, turned out the lights,
took Joan's hand and led her into his father's room.

"Turn these lights out too," she said. "Make it look as if everybody
had gone to bed."

He did so, with a sort of solemn sense of responsibility; and it was