When one wakes from a heavy, unsatisfying sleep, it is with a vague memory of flitting shadows, of empty spaces, of strange deeds and peculiar sayings. There is also a painful sort of lethargy and an odd sense of personal defeat which is peculiarly annoying.

It was with some such feeling as this that Ashton-Kirk opened his eyes. The first person whom he saw was old Nanon, and she was bathing his head with cold water. Near at hand stood Drevenoff; and seated by a table was Stella Corbin.

"So," said the old servant in a gentle tone that he had not yet heard her speak, "you are better."

The secret agent sat up; his head felt strangely light, and there was a sharp, shooting pain across his scalp. But, for all, there was a smile upon his face.

"I will not pattern by the young lady in the novel or the play and inquire where I am," said he. "But I will ask," and he looked from one to the other, "how I happened to get here."

The old woman gestured toward the Pole.

"Drevenoff found you lying upon the back lawn, unconscious, less than a quarter of an hour ago," she said.

The young man nodded.

"I did not recognize you at first," said he; "I thought it was some one who had wandered in and fallen there. But when Nanon came with the light, we knew you at once."

"And a good thing it was that he came upon you," said the old servant, shaking her gray head. "You might have bled to death."

There was a moment's silence; then Drevenoff asked, curiously:

"What happened to you?—and how did you come to this?"

The secret agent smiled.

"I was making a call," said he, "and my presence was evidently not altogether appreciated."

Though they waited for more, still he stopped at that; and raising his hand he felt of a wet bandage which was drawn tightly about his head. Stella Corbin during the above had sat quite still; her dark eyes were fixed steadily upon him; their expression was strange and full of speculation.

"It is queer how things chance at times," spoke Drevenoff, addressing Nanon. "If Miss Corbin had not asked me to go to the city for her to-night, I should not have gone out; and if I had not gone out, I should not have found him."

But the old woman paid no attention to the latter part of his speech. She gazed at him for a moment: then her eyes shifted to the girl.

"You are sending him to the city, then?" she said.

"Yes," answered Stella Corbin.

"Why?"

At this question the girl appeared to stiffen; it seemed as though a curt rejoinder was upon her tongue. But, then, she changed her mind.

"There is an errand that I desired him to do," she replied, meekly enough.

The gray eyes searched her face from beneath the craggy brows; the thin lips were set in their hard, straight line.

"There will be no more trains back to-night," she said. "He cannot return before morning."

"I know," replied the girl.

"Can the matter not wait until then?"

Stella Corbin arose.

"That I wish him to go to-night should be enough," she said, coldly. Then turning to the young Pole, she added, "You remember my instructions?"

"Yes, Miss Corbin."

"Then go at once; the train will reach here before many more minutes, and you must not miss it."

Drevenoff took his hat and went out without any further words. And as the door closed after him, Ashton-Kirk arose, rather unsteadily.

"If that is the last train to the city," he said to Stella, "I fear that I, also, must make it."

The girl inclined her head ever so little, but said nothing. However, the old servant spoke.

"It is a good walk to the station," she said, "and hurt as you are you could not get there in time. Another thing, it is much better that you should rest for a little. To exert yourself now might start your wound bleeding once more, as I have not yet properly bandaged it."

"You may be right," said the secret agent, and his eyes sought those of the girl. But if he expected her to agree with the old servant he was much mistaken; her face was set, and rather pale; her hands, as she trifled with a brooch at her throat, trembled.

There was a pause; then, as she did not speak, the old servant, who had been watching her fixedly, said:

"Miss Corbin will be pleased to have you stay until morning, of course."

Still the girl's expression did not change, and still she said nothing.

"In that case," said Ashton-Kirk, quietly, "I will venture to trespass upon her kindness. I confess that I feel somewhat shaky, and a night's rest may help me wonderfully."

"It will," said Nanon, but never taking her eyes from the girl's face; "sleep brings the strength back to one. And then," her tone changing, "it will be so much safer to have a man about the place—even though a sick one. Now that Drevenoff is gone for the night, we should have been alone."

Again there was a pause; then:

"I dare say we should have managed," said Stella. Her manner had suddenly changed, and her tone was even light; she smiled as she turned to Ashton-Kirk and added: "Of course we must not turn you away; and you are very welcome indeed. Please do not think me strange; but so many things have happened of late that I am not altogether myself." Here she turned to old Nanon, the smile upon her white face forced and pathetic. "Of course we should need a protector. I had not thought of that. But you, Nanon," and the look in the great, dark eyes was unfathomable, "you think of everything."

"It is not that," replied the servant woman, meaningly. "It is that I do not forget."

The eyes of the two were fixed upon and held each other steadily for a moment; and Ashton-Kirk, as he sat and quietly watched, smiled and seemed to fall to pondering.

After a few more remarks of a general and impersonal nature addressed to the secret agent, Miss Corbin left the room; old Nanon stood for some moments gazing at the closed door through which the girl had passed; then she turned to the table and began stripping up some bandages and preparing a lotion for the guest's wounded head.

"You are not to think her strange," she said in a low tone, "because so many things have happened of late that she is not herself." The keen old eyes turned on Ashton-Kirk a look of significance, and she nodded her head. "Many things have happened of late," she commented; "so many that I have often wondered if there were not more of them than I have seen. And who knows if she is now herself, or no? Indeed, perhaps I now see her true self for the first time."

She removed the wet pack from his head and carefully cleaned the wound.

"It is not more than a deep scratch," she said, "but it bled a great deal, and so weakened you. To-morrow it may feel stiff, and you may have a headache; but that will be all."

Quickly, and with admirable skill, she put the bandages in place. When it was done he surveyed himself ruefully in a mirror.

"With that," remarked he, "there is nothing left for me but my room. So if you will show me there, I shall be obliged to you."

She led the way to the stairs, opened a door upon the second floor and then halted.

"I beg your pardon, sir," she said, "but I shall have to go for a match. I can never remember."

He produced a metal safe and struck a match. She took it from him, and entering the room, turned on and lighted the gas.

"There is no wiring above the first floor," she said, in explanation; "and I find it confusing at times." She went from one thing to another, seeing that all was right "The room is small," she continued, "but I think you will find it comfortable. And right behind it," opening another door, "there is another room, sir, with fine large windows in case this should get too stuffy for you in the night. You can open the door and the back window, and so get plenty of air and no direct draught."

Ashton-Kirk thanked her and she went out. He took off his coat, sat down in a big cane chair and leaned his wounded head against a cushion.

"Rather a night," said he to himself. "Things seem to have crowded upon me in a rather unexpected sort of a way. And this knock on the head has not just helped to make it all clear, either."

The events of the night, from the moment he rang the bell at Okiu's house, began to pass through his mind in a sort of review; then, little by little, they grew hazy and indistinct; one seemed to melt into another in an unnaturally complete and satisfactory manner, and he found himself accepting weird conclusions with the cheerful ease of a man falling asleep.

He may have remained so in the chair for an hour; it may have been longer. At any rate he awoke at last with his head throbbing painfully. He sat for some moments gazing at the flaring gaslight; then he heard a clock from somewhere in the house strike once. He glanced at his watch.

"One-thirty," he said. "Phew! I've got a long night to put in."

He got up and looked at the bed. But there was nothing inviting about it; all desire for sleep seemed to have deserted him. As Nanon had suggested, the room had grown stuffy; and so he passed into the rear apartment and lifted the window. The stars still burnt palely in the sky as they had some hours before when he looked at them from the window of Okiu's house; small, swift-moving clouds were shifting across their faces; and all about was dark and still and mysterious.

But the night air was cool and he stood drinking it in for a time, and gazing down toward the dark loom made by the house of the Japanese at the far end of the open space. No light, no movement came from that direction. It was for all the world like a place deserted.

At this thought the secret agent smiled.

"That is the second time I've thought that same thing to-night. But not a great deal of movement or light is to be expected of any dwelling at this hour," he said to himself. "However, I should not be surprised if deserted were now the right word, after all."

He had closed the door leading into the bedroom, and so all was darkness in the apartment in which he stood. The quiet pleased him, and the cool air felt grateful upon his aching head and so he remained at the window for some time.

Then, suddenly, there came something like a dim burst of light. An instant served to show him its nature; upon the lawn was sharply silhouetted the outline of a window, with a blind but a few inches drawn.

"Some one in the hall," he said to himself, "and he has lighted the gas."

Curiously he gazed at the illuminated square upon the grass below; the sash and even the swinging cord of the blind were sharply outlined. But, as he looked, a figure partially filled in the square—the figure of a woman, small, delicate and exceedingly graceful, her back was, apparently, turned to the window, and she was waving one hand in a beckoning motion as though to some one further along the hall. Then a second figure appeared, and the two silhouetted heads bent together in earnest conference.

"So!" said Ashton-Kirk, softly. "I understood that with Drevenoff gone to the city I was the only man in the house. But I see now that there was a mistake somewhere."