"I'm Summer Storm and this is my husband, Wyn Storm, and we live at 138 March Street," she said, all in a rush. "Oh, Don, I'm sorry you don't know us any more, but I should have known from the way Wyn was acting and everything that's going to happen...."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute!" I interrupted. "I don't know you. How did you know my name?"
She didn't answer, but just stood there, looking at me intently. I averted my eyes. I was beginning to recover from shock enough to be embarrassed.
"How about this?" I asked the man. "Why should I know you, and where do you come from?"
"I'm afraid I don't know," he replied, sounding perfectly honest about it. "I'm afraid I don't remember anything. Do you suppose I have amnesia?"
"That's possible," I said. "But your wife seems not to be bothered with it. All right. Summer Storm and Wyn Storm it is—but the names are too trite in these circumstances not to be false. Both of you had better get back in the shrubbery while I get some help."
I found the policeman on the Main Street beat. As I thought, it was my old friend, Gus Adams. He accompanied me back to the park, the rain gleaming on his slicker.
"They picked a good address to lie about," he said, when I had explained the situation to him on the way. "The house at 138 March Street is vacant."
"They're probably spooners who got caught by that lightning bolt and are too ashamed to give their right names," I said. "If they had any clothes, I don't know what happened to them. I didn't see any in those bushes."
"What do you figure I ought to do with them, Mr. Gracey?" he asked.