to twitch, the fingers to contract. There was no
answering movement in the face--even when the sleeper at length firmly
grasped the pen and suddenly sat up. Tims rose quickly, and then
perceived, lying on the writing-board, a directed envelope and a
half-finished note to herself. She slipped the note-paper nearer to the
twitching hand, and after a few meaningless flourishes, it wrote slowly
and tentatively:

"Tims--Milly--cannot get back. Help me ... Save Ian. Wicked creature--no
conscience--"

Here the power of the hand began to fail, and the writing was terminated
by mere scrawls. The sleeper's eyes were now open, but not wide. They
had a strange, glassy look in them, nor did she show any consciousness
of Tims's presence. She dropped the pen, folded the paper in the same
slow and tentative manner in which she had written upon it, and placed
it in the directed envelope lying there. Then her face contracted, her
fingers slackened, and she fell back again to the depths of the chair.

"Milly!" cried Tims, almost involuntarily bending over her. "Milly!"

Again there was a slight contraction of the face and of the whole body.

At the moment that Tims uttered Milly's name, Ian was entering the room.
His long legs brought him up to the chair in an instant, and he asked,
without the usual salutation:

"What's the matter? Has--has the change happened?"

His voice unconsciously spoke dismay. Tims looked at him.

"No, not exactly," she articulated, slowly; and, after a pause: "Poor
old Milly's trying to come back, that's all."

She paused again; then:

"You look a bit worried, old man."

He tossed back his head with a gesture he had kept from the days when
the crest of raven-black hair had been wont to grow too long and
encroach on his forehead. It was grizzled now, and much less intrusive.

"I'm about tired out," he said, shortly.

"Look here," she continued, "if you really want Milly back, just say so.
She's kind of knocking at the door, and I believe I could let her in if
I tried."

He dropped wearily into a chair.

"For Heaven's sake, Miss Timson, don't put the responsibility on me!"

"I can't help it," returned Tims. "She's managed to get this through to
me--" She handed Milly's scrawled message to Ian.

He read it, then read it again and handed it back.

"Strange, certainly."

"Does it mean anything in particular?"

He shrugged his shoulders almost impatiently and sighed.

"Oh no! It's the poor chi