neared the couch, Gavin Brice opened his eyes, with
considerable effort, and blinked dazedly up at the gigantic
figure in the torn and muddy white silk suit.

Then Brice's blinking gaze drifted to Claire, as she stood,
pale and big-eyed, above him. He essayed a feeble smile of
recognition, and let his glance wander in well-acted amazement
about the high-veiled hallway.

"Feeling better?" queried Milo. "Here, drink this."

Gavin essayed to speak. His pose was not wholly assumed. For
his head still swam and was intolerably painful.

He sipped at the brandy which Standish held to his sagging
lips. And, glancing toward Claire, he smiled, a somewhat
wavery and wan smile.

"Don't try to say anything!" she begged. "Wait till you are
feeling better."

"I'm I'm all right," he assured her, albeit rather shakily,
his voice seeming to come from a distance. "I got a rap over
the head. And it put me out, for a while. But--I'm
collecting the pieces. I'll be as good as--as new, in a few
minutes."

The fragments of dialogue between brother and sister had
supplemented his returning memory. Mentally, he was himself
again, keen, secretive, alert, every bit of him warily on