"but
it's after twelve o'clock, and I began to get anxious--you a stranger
and all. I think, ma'am, you've a fever. Better let me call the doctor;
there's one on the block."

The woman sat up in bed. "Mrs. Martin?" she said faintly. "Yes--I've--My
head hurts--and my eyes--" She stared about her with a puzzled
expression that convinced her observer that delirium had set in. "A
doctor? Do I need a doctor? Why? What was it the doctor said? That my
nerves were in--in--what was it? And I must travel and rest--yes, that
was it; I remember now."

"Well," the other woman commented, "he doesn't seem to have done you a
world of good, and you better try another."

"No," said Mrs. Marteen with decision, "no, I don't want one--not now,
anyway. It's a headache. May I have some tea? Then I'll lie quiet, if
you'll lower that blind, please."

"I'm sorry Mrs. Bell's away, or I'd send for her," ventured the
landlady.

"Mrs. Bell?" the sick woman echoed with the same tone of puzzled
surprise. "Why, she's away--yes--she's away." She sank back among the
pillows and waved a dismissing hand.

Still the landlady waited. She deemed it most unwise not to call a
doctor, but feared to make herself responsible for the bill if her guest
refused. But she had seen enough to convince her that the lady's visible
possessions were ample to cover any bill she might run up through
illness, provided, of course, it were not contagious. She turned
reluctantly and descended to the kitchen to brew the desired tea.

Left alone, the patient sat up and looked about her with strained and
frightened eyes. Then she began to wring her hands, slowly, as if such a
gesture of torment was foreign to her habit. Her wide, clear brow
knitted with puzzled fear. Her lips were distorted as one who would cry
out and was held dumb. Presently she spoke.

"Where am I?" There was a long pause of nerve-racking effort as she
strove to remember. "_Who_ am I?" she cried hysterically. She sprang out
of bed and ran to the mirror over the dressing table. The face that
looked back at her was familiar, but she could not give it its name. A
muffled scream escaped her lips, and she held her clenched fists to her
temples as if she feared her brain would burst. "Martin!" she said at
last. "Martin--she called me Mrs. Martin. Who is she? When did I come
here?"

She seized her dressing case and went through its contents. Each article
was familiar; they were hers; she knew their faults an