Over her shoulder peered the scared face of a maid. His first sensation
was that he was cold, his first act to pull the rug more closely about
him. His struggle back to waking consciousness was the more confused
because of the familiar surroundings of the library.

"Oh, papa, what's the matter?"

He threw the coverlet from him and dragged himself to a sitting posture.

"What time is it?" he asked, rubbing his eyes. "I must have dropped off
to sleep. Is dinner ready?"

"It's half-past six in the morning, papa dear. Katie found you here when
she came in to dust the room. The window was wide open and all these
things strewn about the floor. She put the rug on you and came to wake
me. What is it? What's happened? Let me send for the doctor."

With his elbow on his knee, he rested his forehead on his hand. The
incidents of the night came back to him. Olivia seated herself on the
couch beside him, an arm across his shoulder.

"I'm cold," was all he said.

"Katie, go and mix something hot--some whisky or brandy and hot
water--anything! And you, papa dear, go to bed. I'll call Reynolds and
he'll help you."

"I'm cold," he said again.

Rising, he crawled to the mirror into which he had looked last night,