a Cupid's bow such as age can never know.

This arouses a wild curiosity in his mind; he wonders what this woman,
who wears such a strange habit, can be like, and watches her with
something of eagerness.

Surely the room is growing very close; a window opened would be a good
thing he believes, and yet somehow lacks the energy to open it, turns
his head, and sees the professor lying back in his chair _fast asleep_.

This gives him a faint shock, but his nerves are deadened; nothing would
surprise him very much now, unless an earthquake occurred.

"Rest your head, Doctor Craig; the back of the chair is very
comfortable," he hears a soft voice say.

Warm breath fans his face. The Mother Superior has thrown aside that
ugly bonnet; it is a young, face, a fair face, surrounded by golden
curls, that looks down upon him, as with a stage laugh the woman rests
one hand on the head of the drugged medical student from Chicago, to
exclaim:

"At last! he belongs to Pauline Potter!"

CHAPTER VII.

THE BEAUTIFUL TIGRESS.

John Craig dreams. He fancies himself bathing with demon apes in the
wilds of Africa, having read an explorer's account of such a scene very
recently.

They press him hard, and he can see no hope of escaping with his life.

In the midst of his mental torture he opens his eyes, and the
disagreeable features of the case are suddenly swept away.

Where can he be? Soft music throbs upon the scented air, he hears the
gentle plash of a fountain in a court near by; a mellow light, anything
but garish, shows him the most luxurious surroundings, silks and
velvets, brightness in color and gorgeousness in taste, everywhere.

This amazes him; almost takes his breath away; it is so different from
his dream, which left him in a desperate hole.

His mind seems dull of comprehension, which must be the effect of the
drug, so that for a brief time he is unable to understand the situation,
or grasp his condition.

Then it dawns upon him, the mission that took him away from the hotel;
and having reached that point, he is wrestling with what must have
followed when something touches his face, something that is cool and
pleasant--the soft, white hand of a woman.

Then Doctor Chicago's eyes flash open again, and he looks up startled;
he has just recollected Lady Ruth's story, and a wild hope rushes into
existence, a hope that could not be put into words, but which takes the
form of an idea that she whom the Engli