onto her part of the job."
"Have we got to tell her—everything?" asked Jean, deprecatingly.
"Every solitary thing," said Dick, decisively. "She's got to be our right-hand man in this game, and she can't go it blind. Besides, she's deserving. The Lord knows what would have happened to us on several occasions, if it hadn't been for her; but she'll never breathe a word excepting what we tell her to. I predict that you and she are going to be wonderful friends as time goes on."
"It won't be my fault if we are not," said Jean, with conviction.
Dick rose up. "All right; run along and write your letter, so that it won't encroach upon our evening, and so tomorrow things will really be under way."
It was still fairly early on the following morning when Dick drove out to the Sands' home at Waikiki. Bert had just come in from a swim and was looking particularly boyish with the rings of damp black hair clinging to her small round head. "Well," she greeted him, "how goes it?"
"Fine!" said Dick. "Wonderful!"
Bert grinned. "Got it all fixed up, have you?"
"Got what?" asked Dick, somewhat chap-fallen.
"When are the solemn rites to be performed?"
"Oh, I say!" said Dick, "Do you mean that you
