flash of each passing street-light her face showed waxen pale, a cameo
against the dark background; so drawn and pinched were her features,
that Brencherly, in panic, seized her pulse, in order to assure himself
that life had not already fled. Obedient to his orders the cab ran up to
an hotel entrance, and Brencherly, leaning out, called the starter.

"Here!" he snapped, "send a taxi over to the park--the bench opposite
No. --, and pick up a man with an old lady. She's unconscious."

For an instant the light glinted on his metal badge as he threw back his
coat. The starter nodded. Brencherly settled back again in his place
with a sigh of relief. It was only a matter of moments now, and he would
have brought to an unexpectedly successful close the task he had set
himself. He began to build air castles; to construct for himself a
little niche in his own selected temple of Fame. He was aroused from his
revery by a voice at his side. Mrs. Marteen was speaking, at first
indistinctly, then with insistent repetition.

"I can't remember--I can't remember."

He turned to her with gentle questioning, but she did not heed him.
Slowly, with infinite effort, as if her slender hands were weighted
down, she lifted them before her face. She stared at them with growing
horror depicted on her face. He was suddenly reminded of an electrifying
performance of Macbeth he had once witnessed. A red glare from a ruby
lamp at a fire-street corner splashed her frail fingers with vivid color
as they passed it by. She gave a scream that ended in a moan, and
mechanically wiped her hands back and forth, back and forth, upon her
coat. Brencherly's heart ached for her. Over and over he repeated
reassuring words in her deafened ears, striving to lay the awful ghost