strolling toward the veranda in the shaft of light from the
window, then the black figure which detached itself from the
shrubbery and sprang on the unheeding man, and his own attempt
to turn aside the arm that wielded the knife.

But everything else was a blank.

Meanwhile, the countless shooting pains were merging into one
intolerable ache. Brice had no desire to stir or even to open
his eyes. The very thought of motion was abhorrent. The mere
effort at thinking was painful. So he lay still.

Presently, he was aware of something that touched his head.
And he wondered why the touch did not add to his hurt, but was
soothing. Even a finger's weight might have been expected to
jar his battered skull.

But there was no jar to this touch. Rather was it cooling and
of infinite comfort. And now he realized that it had been
continuing for some time.

Again he roused his rebellious brain to action, and knew at
last what the soothing touch must be. Some one was bathing
his forehead with cool water. Some one with a lightly
magnetic touch. Some one whose fingers held healing in their
soft tips.

And, just above him, he could hear quick, light breathing,
breathing that was almost a sob. His unseen nurse was taking
her job not only seriously but compassionately. That was