a reward.  I think she is somewhere under an assumed name.  But there are two lodestones that will draw her if she is able to move.  One is the house of Victor Mahr, and the other her own home.  There is love and hate to count on, and sooner or later one will draw her within reach.  I’ll have the closest watch put about that I can devise.  There’s nothing you can do, sir—­now.  If you’ll rest to-night, you’ll be better able to stand to-morrow, and if I can verify my idea in the least I’ll tell you.  Let your secretary watch here; and good night, Mr. Gard.”

* * * * *

XII

The woman in the narrow bed tossed in a heavy, unnatural sleep.  Her lips were swollen and cracked with fever, her cheeks scarlet and dry.  She was alone in a narrow, plain room, sparsely but newly furnished.  On a dressing table an expensive gold-fitted traveling bag stood open.  Over a bent-wood chair hung a costly dark blue traveling suit, and the garments scattered about the room were of the finest make and material.  On the floor lay a diamond-encrusted watch, ticking faintly, and a gold mesh bag, evidently flung from under the pillow by the movements of the sleeper.  This much the landlady noticed as she softly opened the unlocked door and stood upon the threshold.

“Dear, dear!” she murmured, and, habit strong upon her, she gathered up the scattered garments, folded them neatly, and hung up the gown in the scanty closet, having first examined the tailor’s mark on the collar.  “Dear, dear!” she said again.  “It’s noon; now whatever can be the matter?  Is she sick?  Looks like fever.”  Again she hesitated and paused to pick up a sheer handkerchief-linen blouse, upon the Irish lace collar of which a circle of pinhead diamonds held a monogram of the same material.  “H’m,” ruminated the landlady.  “Martin!  Yes, there’s an ‘M,’ and a ‘Y’ and a ’J’—­h’m!  She said she’s a friend of Mrs. Bell’s, but Mrs. Bell has been in Europe six months.  Wonder who her friends are, if she’s going to be sick?”

She moved toward the bed to examine her guest more closely, but her attention was distracted by the luxuriousness of the objects in the dressing case.  She fingered them with awe and observed the marking.  She stooped for the purse and watch, which she examined with equal attention.  Once more her eyes turned to the flushed face on the tumbled pillow.  The sleeper had not awakened.  The woman leaned over and took one of the restless hands in hers.  “It’s fever, sure,” she said.  At the touch and sound of her voice the other opened her eyes, wide with sudden astonishment.  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Martin,” said the visitor, “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.”