Some one lifted his head from the carpet and a woman's voice was
crying something unintelligible. He was conscious of an effort
on his part to prevent the blood from streaming over her gown--a
last bit of gallantry. The sound of rushing feet, shouts,
firearms--oblivion!

. . . . . . . . . . .

When Lorry regained consciousness, he blinked in abject
amazement. There was a dull, whirring sound in his ears, and his
eyes had a glaze over them that was slow in wearing off. There
were persons in the room. He could see them moving about and
could hear them talking. As his eyes tried to take in the
strange surroundings, a hand was lifted from his forehead and a
soft, dream-like voice said:

"He is recovering, Mr. Anguish. See, his eyes are open! Do you
know me, Mr. Lorry?"

The unsteady eyes wandered until they fell upon the face near his
pillow. A brighter gleam came into them, and there was a ray of
returning intelligence. He tried to speak, but could only move
his lips. As he remembered her, she was in white, and he was
puzzled now to see her in a garment of some dark material,
suggestive of the night or the green of a shady hillside. There
was the odor of roses and violets and carnations. Then he looked
for the fatal, fearful, glaring chandelier. It was gone. The
room was becoming lighter and lighter as his eyes grew stronger,
but it was through a window near where he lay. So it was
daylight! Where was he?