"I've never been engaged before," he confided grinningly to Paul Brenswick. "I'd like to make the most of it . . ."
Passing into my own room I flung back the casement windows for a revivifying slash of wind and rain, before I should collapse utterly into the white scrumptiousness of my bed. Frankly, I was very tired.
It must have been almost midnight when I woke to see my Husband's dark figure silhouetted in the bright square of the door. Through the depths of my weariness a consuming curiosity struggled.
"Did Ann Woltor come back?" I asked.
"She did!" said my Husband succinctly.
"And how did you get on with Allan John?"
"Oh, I'm crazy about Allan John," I yawned amiably. And then with one of those perfectly inexplainable nerve-explosions that astonishes no one as much as it astonishes oneself I struggled up on my elbow.
"But he's still got my best silver saltshaker in his pocket!" I cried.
It was then that the scream of a siren whistle tore like some fear-maddened voice through the whole house. Shriller than knives it ripped and screeched into the senses! Doors banged! Feet thudded!
"There's Allan John now!" I gasped. "It's the whistle the May Girl gave him!"