The fire in the hall was still burning, and the flames wavered fitfully over the great picture above the mantel, and on the jar of red roses in front of it.  The rest of the hall was in the shadow, and darker than the shadows, Anne had made out the figure of a man standing on the threshold.

As she gazed, he crossed the room and stood in front of the fire, his eyes raised to the great picture.  Suddenly he leaned forward and took one of the red roses from the jar.

“He is even stealing the roses,” thought Anne, indignantly, but then, what could you expect of a man who would carry off boxes of candy and thimbles and kittens?

She was sure it was the Durant burglar, and she dropped to the floor cautiously, and crouched there.  Outside she could still hear the whine of the dog, but she had no thought of going to him now—­she could not pass that silent figure on the rug.

Then, all at once, she thought of Judy.  She was in the library, and there was just one room between her and the burglar!

Anne wasn’t brave, and never had been, but in that moment she forgot herself, forgot everything but that Judy was not well and must not be frightened at any cost.  Judy must not see the burglar.

As the man moved across the hall Anne staggered to her feet, feeling along the wall for the electric button, and then suddenly the lights flared up, and the little girl, a desperate pink figure clinging to the stair-rail, looked down into the upraised face of the man below.

“Don’t,” she said, with white lips, “don’t—­go—­in—­there—­”

As she stared at him in a blur of fright she was conscious of wondering if all burglars looked so gentlemanly—­if—­why, where had she seen his face?

“Judy,” breathed the man, and his whisper seemed to thunder in her ears as he came up the stairway two steps at a time.

Anne gave a little scream, half fright, half delight.

“Oh—­” Why, his face was familiar—­it was the face of the man in the picture over the fireplace!

“Judy,” he said, again, as he reached her and caught her in his arms.  But as her yellow hair flowed over his coat, he laughed excitedly and put her from him.  “I beg pardon,” he apologized.  “I thought you were Judy.”

“And I thought you were a burglar,” quavered Anne, as she sat down on the top step weakly.

Her fair little face was alight with joy as she held out her hand.  “Oh,” she said, “you are Judy’s father, and you are alive, you are really alive!”

“And you are Anne,” said the Captain.

“How did you know?” wondering.

“The Judge told me.”

“Where did you see the Judge?” she asked.

“He has been with me ever since he left here,” said the Captain.  “Dr. Grennell discovered me in a hospital in Newfoundland, and I was very ill, and he sent for father, and he has been with me ever since.  And he has gone straight to Fairfax, for he isn’t very well.  But I had to see my girl.  Did I wake you?”