“What is it, Mr. Cronklin?  Not one of our boys?” The clear voice reached him as if at his side.  He steadied himself, stared, and tried to speak.

“Frances,” he said, and held out his hands.  “You’ve made me walk so far, Frances, and Christmas is—­”

In the snow his feet slipped.  The cop was such a fool.  He had never fainted in his life.

Some one was standing near him.  Who was it, and where was he?  This wasn’t his room.  On his elbow, he looked around.  Nothing was familiar.  It must be a woman’s room; he could see photographs and a pin-cushion on the bureau, and flowers were growing on a table near the window.  The bed he was in was small and white.  His was big and brass.  What had happened?  Slowly it came to him, and he started to get up, then fell back.  The surge of blood receded, and again there was giddiness.  Had he lost her?  Had she, too, slipped out of his hands because of his confounded fall?  It was a durned outrage that he should have fallen.  Who was that man with his back to the bed?

The man turned.  “All right, are you?  That’s good!” His pulse was felt with professional fingers, but in the doctor’s voice was frank interest.  “You were pretty nearly frozen, man.  It’s well she saw you.”

“Where is she?” Van Landing sat up.  “Where are my clothes?  I must get up.”

“I guess not.”  The doctor laughed, but his tone was as decisive as his act.  Van Landing was pushed back on the pillow and the covering pulled up.  “Do you mean Miss Barbour?”

“Yes.  Where is Miss Barbour?”

The doctor wrote something on a slip of paper.  “Down-stairs, waiting to hear how you are.  I’ll go down and tell her.  I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Where am I?  Whose house is this?”

“Your house at present.”  The doctor laughed again.  “It’s Mother McNeil’s house, but all who need it use it, and you needed it, all right.  You struck your head on the bottom step of the porch three doors from here.  Had it been an inch nearer the temple—­Pretty bad knock-out, as it was, but you’ll be all right to-morrow.  If you wake up in a couple of hours take another one of these”—­a pill was obediently swallowed—­“but you’re to see no one until I see you again.  No talking.”

“Sorry, but I must see Miss Barbour.”  In Van Landing’s voice was sharp fear.  “Christmas isn’t over yet?  I haven’t missed it, have I?  Are you sure she’s in this house?”

“Sure.  She’s getting ready for to-morrow.  To-morrow will be the busiest day in the year.  It’s Christmas eve.”

Van Landing slipped down in the bed and his face went deep in the pillows.  Reaction was on.  A horrible fear that he was going to cry, going to do some abominably childish thing, made him stuff the covering in his mouth and press his feet hard against the foot of the bed.  He would not be cheated out of Christmas!  He had believed he hated it, thought he wanted to be dead during it, and now if it were over and nothing done—­Presently he spoke.