usual thing, but this is an exceptional time of the year, preceding
Lent, and there may be some other reason besides that causes an
all-night open house.

Doctor Chicago finds a chair, and seats himself, first of all to reflect
upon the singular train of events that has marked a red cross in his
career since the last sunrise.

His stricken arm pains him, but he has not the slightest fear as to the
ultimate outcome of that episode; the self-inflicted scorching with the
hot iron effectually ended that.

At last he draws out the piece of paper which Philander secured in the
room that marked their downfall, the paper that bears the signature of
Sister Magdalen.

Lady Ruth's reminiscence has thus proved of great value to him.

He takes out one of the notes which came periodically to him--it is the
one that bore the postmark of Valetta, Malta. Holding the two side by
side, he eagerly compares them.

"Yes, the same hand penned both--I would swear to that."

Long he muses, sitting there. The papers have been put away, his cigar
falls unheeded to the floor, and his thoughts fly far away.

Finally he arises, with a sigh, and seeks his room, to rest very poorly,
between the pain of his arm and the worry of his mind.