It was the man whom I had seen staring at us across Herald Square.

Beside the window Jacqueline crouched, and at her feet lay the Eskimo
dog, watching me silently. In her hand she held a tiny, dagger-like
knife, with a thin, red-stained blade. Her grey eyes, black in the
gas-light, stared into mine, and there was neither fear nor recognition
in them. She was fully dressed, and the bed had not been occupied.

I flung myself at her feet. I took the weapon from her hand.
"Jacqueline!" I cried in terror. I raised her hands to my lips and
caressed them.

She seemed quite unresponsive.

I laid them against my cheek. I called her by her name imploringly; I
spoke to her, but she only looked at me and made no answer. Still it
was evident to me that she heard and understood, for she looked at me
in a puzzled way, as if I were a complete stranger. She did not seem
to resent my presence there, and she did not seem afraid of the dead
man. She seemed, in a kindly, patient manner, to be trying to
understand the meaning of the situation.

"Jacqueline," I cried, "you are not hurt? Thank God you are not hurt.
What has happened?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I don't know where I am."

I kneeled down at her side and put my arms about her.

"Jacqueline, dear;" I said, "will you not try to think? I am