the beach comber, earlier in the afternoon. He had begun to
learn that when grown men come to a clinch, it is not mere
play.

And Brice wanted to praise the gallant young dog for coming
to his help. But, as before, instinct and professional
experience bade him continue to "play dead."

"What's that?" he heard the man demand, in surprise, as Bobby
snarled again and stood threateningly between him and the
prostrate Brice.

The woman answered. And at the first sound of her voice, full
memory rushed back on Gavin in a flood. He knew where he was,
and who was holding, his head on her knee. The knowledge
thrilled him, unaccountably. With mighty effort he held to
his, pose of inert senselessness.

"That's Bobby Burns," he heard Claire saying in reply to her
brother's first question. "He's guarding Mr. Brice. When I
ran out here with the water and the cloths, I found him
standing above him. But--oh, Milo--"

"Brice?" snapped Milo Standish, glowering on the fallen man
his sister was brooding over. "Brice? Who's Brice? D'you
mean that chap? Lucky I got him, even if the other one did
give me the slip! Let me take a look at him. If I hadn't
happened to be bringing the monkey-wrench from the garage to
fix that shelf-bolt in the study, I'd never have been able to
get even one of them. I yanked free of them, while they were