stared inquiringly at each other. In the lull that so often follows a thunder-clap, we heard from the outside a distant, muffled cry of distress. A few moments later, in the renewed rush and beat of the wind and rain, we heard it again. This time it was a distinct cry of "Help! Help!"

Visions of the angry sea taking its toll raced through my mind, while I thought: "Oh, God! Pity the poor sailor that has to be out on a night like this!" And while these things were going through my mind, Henry was taking action. He had jumped to the house telephone, and was giving orders downstairs for our two strong-armed chauffeurs, George and William, to get their flashlights, and seek out and save the person in distress.

While Henry was searching frantically in a wardrobe for his rain-coat, which he always kept conveniently near him for emergencies, the dark, excited face of Niki, the valet, suddenly appeared at the stairs, just showing above the floor level like a head without a body.

"Oh, Meester Royce!" cried Niki, in a high-pitched, nervous voice. "Come--queeck! A man he has been washed ashore. He call for--help."

Niki's head disappeared, and there was a general and excited rush from the observatory. Pat led the way. She was down the narrow stairs, and flying along the dark corridor to the elevator before Henry could get into his rain-coat. Some minutes passed before we found ourselves assembled in the entrance hall on the main floor.

Henry stood just outside the front door, shouting instructions to the two chauffeurs. Pat and the Prince stood at a French window, which opened on the terrace, peering out into the black and tempestuous night.

Greatly to Henry's annoyance, I kept the front door open just a crack. I felt it my duty to see what was going on, and to impart such information to those inside. Presently, I heard one of the chauffeurs calling to Henry. "There's a man lying on the sand near the dock," he shouted.

Henry cupped his mouth with his hands, megaphone fashion, and called back: "Do you think he fell off the cliff?""No," came the reply, to a very foolish question, I thought.  
"Who is he?" Henry shouted again; really a more foolish question than the first one. "Anybody you know?"  
"A stranger," was the chauffeur's reply.  
Ten minutes later, the two husky chauffeurs came slowly across the terrace, supporting between them a bedraggled, hatless young man, who seemed to have some difficulty in walking. The stranger's 

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