aroused him entered through a crack in one of the tightly drawn blinds. There were dust and grime on the
wails, and cobwebs clustered in the corners.
In the silent, deserted room the beating of his heart became audible. He struggled to a sitting posture. He
gasped for breath. He knew it was very cold in here, but perspiration moistened his face. He could recall no
such suffering as this since, when a boy, he had slipped from the crisis of a destructive fever.
Had he been drugged? But he had been with friends. There was no motive.
What house was this? Was it, like this room, empty and deserted? How had he come here? For the first time
he went through that dreadful process of trying to draw from the black pit useful memories.
He started, recalling the strange voice and its warning, for his shoes lay near by as though he might have
dropped them carelessly when he had entered the room and stretched himself on the floor. Damp earth
adhered to the soles. The leather above was scratched.
"Then," he thought, "that much is right. I was in the woods. What was I doing there? That dim figure! My
imagination."
He suffered the agony of a man who realizes that he has wandered unawares in strange places, and retains no
recollection of his actions, of his intentions. He went back to that last unclouded moment in the cafe with
Maria, Paredes, and the stranger. Where had he gone after he had left them? He had looked at his watch. He
had told himself he must catch the twelve-fifteen train. He must have gone from the restaurant, proceeding
automatically, and caught the train. That would account for the sensation of motion in a swift vehicle, and
perhaps there had been a taxicab to the station. Doubtless in the woods near the Cedars he had decided it was
too late to go in, or that it was wiser not to. He had answered to the necessity of sleeping somewhere. But why
had he come here? Where, indeed, was he?
At least he could answer that. He drew on his shoes--a pair of patent leather pumps. He fumbled for his
handkerchief, thinking he would brush the earth from them. He searched each of his pockets. His
handkerchief was gone. No matter. He got to his feet, lurching for a moment dizzily. He glanced with distaste
at his rumpled evening clothing. To hide it as far as possible he buttoned his overcoat collar about his neck.
On tip-toe he approached the door, and, with the emotions of a thief, opened it quietly. He sighed. The rest of
the house was as empty as this room. The hall was thick with dust. The rear door by which he must have
entered stood half open. The lock was broken and rusty.
He commenced to understand. There was a deserted farmhouse less than two miles from the Cedars. Since he
had always known about it, it wasn't unusual he should have taken shelter there after deciding not to go in to
his grandfather.
He stepped through the doorway to the unkempt yard about whose tumbled fences the woods advanced
thickly. He recognized the place. For some time he stood ashamed, yet fair enough to seek the cause of his
experience in some mental unhealth deeper than any reaction from last night's folly.
He glanced at his watch. It was after two o'clock. The mournful neighbourhood, the growing chill in the air,
the sullen sky, urged him away. He walked down the road. Of course he couldn't go to the Cedars in this
condition. He would return to his apartment in New York where he could bathe, change his clothes, recover
from this feeling of physical ill, and remember, perhaps, something more.
It wasn't far to the little village on the railroad, and at this hour there were plenty of trains. He hoped no one
he knew would see him at the station. He smiled wearily. What difference did that make? He might as well
face old Blackburn, himself, as he was. By this time the thing was done. The new will had been made. He was