It was a strange room, large and bright and fresh. The air of it was cool without being cold. After all, was it a strange room? Had he not seen it, or something like it, before! But perhaps it was in a dream he had seen that other room. A dream? Much of what had been resembled a dream. Did not all the past look like a dream? How was one to know whether the past had been dream or reality? He could not say. At all events, he was too tired to decide any difficult question. He would go to sleep now--at least he would shut his eyes. That bright, cold glitter of winter sunlight pained his eyes.

If before falling asleep, and while his eyes were thus closed and his body at rest, he could get a drink of cool, sweet water, how deliciously refreshing it would be!

How hot he was! It wasn't an agreeable kind of heat, but a dull, dead, smouldering heat that parched his skin, his tongue, his bones, his marrow.

Why, it was hotter than it had been last night on the road!

On the road! Last night! What did all that mean? Oh, he was too tired to think any more. Let him try to rest--to sleep.

Dusk. Yes, there could be no doubt the daylight was fading. At this time of the year the days were short. He had been asleep some time, for the last thing he remembered was that it was full daylight. He was then in some difficulty as to this room. He was under the impression it was a strange room. Could a more absurd idea enter the mind of man? Is it possible he could not identify his own bed-room? What would come next? What should he forget next? His own name, no doubt.

The thirst continued. It was even greater than it had been. He could get water if he went to the dressing-table. But, strange as it might seem, he had the greatest desire to go to the table and drink the water, but not the will. How was that? Why did he not spring out of bed and quench his thirst?

It was easy to think of springing out of bed, but quite impossible to do anything of the kind. Why, he could not move his feet or hands with ease. Ah, yes, it was quite plain! He had been ill--very ill. That would account for all--for the confusion in awaking, the thirst, the weakness. How long had he been ill, and what had ailed him?

This thirst was no longer tolerable. He must drink.

"Water!"

How thin and weak his voice sounded! It was almost ridiculous. If anything could ever again be ridiculous, his voice was. But nothing could ever again be ridiculous. Everything was serious and dull, and would so continue from that time forward. It was strange no one came. If he had been ill they would hardly leave him alone. He must try again.

"Water!"

Instantly a figure stood between his eyes and the fading light in the window.

"You are better, Alfred?"

"Yes, Madge. Water."

His sister poured out some, and handed him the glass. He drank with avidity, and felt refreshed.

"I have been very ill, Madge?"

"Yes, Alfred; but you will be all right in a short time, now that you have begun to mend. So Dr. Santley says."

Dr. Santley! Ah, that name set memory afoot. He lay pondering, still unable to see distinctly the matters he wished.

"How long have I been ill, Madge?"

"Several days."

"I have been unconscious?"

"Yes. But you are sure to be quite well in a little time."

"I am not anxious about the future. I am trying to recall the past."

"You are not to speak much, and you are on no account to excite yourself."

"I must be in possession of the facts of the past before I can rest. Tell me what has happened--what happened just before I fell ill? I have had fever, and been delirious."

"You have; but you must keep quiet, or I shall go away."

"I must know what took place before my illness, if I am to be at ease. There was some trouble about the law--some inquiry. What was it?"

"Dr. Santley has forbidden me to speak of that matter. You have been very ill, and your recovery depends on your keeping from excitement."

"I must know. I shall become delirious again if you do not tell me."

"My dear, dear Alfred, I cannot--I must not. You don't fancy for a moment I am going to help you back into illness! You shall know all in a little time; and now I must run away and tell father and mother and Edith of the good change in you."

"Send Edith to me, or mother. Either will tell me."

"You are not to see any one but me to-day until Dr. Santley comes. There's a dear fellow--rest content until I come back to you. Already you have talked too much."

She left the room in spite of his cry of protest and entreaty.

In a slow, hopeless, helpless way his mind began working again. Little by little some figures of the past reappeared, but not the central one, the main incident. He knew an event of eminent unpleasantness had occurred, and he knew it did not concern any member of his own family. He knew it did not concern himself closely, and yet that he had a profound interest in it. Santley was mixed up with it in one way or another, but how he could not tell. The law had been invoked; but in what manner or in whose regard was concealed from him. He had a faint memory of a crowded room. Only one figure stood out boldly, and that Tom Blake's. He knew his name, and could describe him with minute accuracy; but why this man and his name were so clearly defined in his recollection he could not tell. Around Blake shone a fierce light; but whence it came or why it was there he could not say. He felt Blake had to do with the legal matter; but in what relation or capacity he could not determine.

At length he resolved to give up trying to solve the riddle, and to go to sleep again. It seemed better to go asleep and forget everything than to lie awake remembering imperfectly.

A shaded lamp was burning in the room when he again awoke. His mind was now more vigorous and clear. Still there was great confusion and uncertainty. He called, and his sister Madge got up and came to him with a basin of arrowroot. She told him that Dr. Santley had called and seen him while he slept, and that he was going on very well indeed, but that there was no use in his asking questions; and, in fact, that he was not to talk at all, but rest perfectly quiet, take his food and go to sleep again--sleep and food being his chief needs now.

Young Paulton protested and expostulated, but in vain; so he was left in the same state of vague uncertainty which he was in when he awoke.

Next morning, as soon as he opened his eyes, all that had been lost came back to him in a flash. Nothing was wanting. The repose of the night and the food had invigorated his brain, and allowed it to fill in the gaps which existed the night before.

Madge was not in the room when he awoke. The moment she came back he said:

"My memory was quite cloudy yesterday; it is as clear as ever it was to-day. I now remember everything. I can recall my walk in the rain. How long have I been ill?"

"This is the sixth day."

"The sixth day! Good heavens! Six days! Then the inquest is over?"

"Yes. You must not talk much or excite yourself at all. You may, however, talk a little more than yesterday, for you are getting on famously."

"For goodness' sake, tell me about the inquest, and don't talk of me and my health. No, I won't taste breakfast until you tell me. What was the verdict?"

"Dr. Santley said you might be answered questions to-day if you promised not to excite yourself. Do you promise to keep calm, Alfred?"

"Oh, yes. Go on."

"The verdict was that he committed suicide while of unsound mind."

"Suicide while of unsound mind! Are you sure?"

"Oh, perfectly."

"Does Santley know the verdict?"

"Of course."

"And what does he say?"

"That it is the most extraordinary case he ever read or heard of."