the lungs and out of them, there was a first faint glimmer of life in
the heart and a touch of color in the cheeks. Haswell was coming to.
Another half-hour found him muttering and rambling weakly.

"The letter--the letter," he moaned, rolling his glazed eyes about.
"Where is the letter? Send for Grace."

The moan was so audible that it was startling. It was like a voice
from the grave. What did it all mean? Mrs. Martin was at his side in a
moment.

"Father, father,--here I am--Grace. What do you want?"

The old man moved restlessly, feverishly, and pressed his trembling
hand to his forehead as if trying to collect his thoughts. He was
weak, but it was evident that he had been saved.

The pulmotor had been stopped. Craig threw the cap to his student to
be packed up, and as he did so he remarked quietly, "I could wish
that Dr. Scott had been found. There are some matters here that might
interest him."

He paused and looked slowly from the rescued man lying dazed on the
bed toward Mrs. Martin. It was quite apparent even to me that she did
not share the desire to see Dr. Scott, at least not just then. She was
flushed and trembling with emotion. Crossing the room hurriedly she
flung open the door into the hall.

"I am sure," she cried, controlling herself with difficulty and
catching at a straw, as it were, "that you gentlemen, even if you have