"Why do you walk in your sleep?" he demanded. She stood quiescent before him; and though her features moved with inward emotion, she did not reply. "Why do you walk in your sleep?" he again demanded. "Answer me." "To save myself," she said, slowly, and in plaintive, aggrieved tones. "From whom?" asked Beverton. "From my enemy--who would kill me." "Who is your enemy? Why would he kill you?" "I do not know. I know I must kill him, or he will kill me." "This is nonsense," said Beverton, sternly, warming to the problem. "Nonsense?" Her face seemed troubled, as though the mind behind was in doubt. "Rank nonsense. No one would harm you. Everyone loves you. What makes you think he would kill you?" "He tried." The set face of the young wife took on an expression of fright and horror. "He met me when I was looking for him, trying to explain. He clutched me by the throat. He would have killed me if he could. He will kill me yet if I cannot explain." "When did he choke you?" asked Beverton. "Where was it?" he asked, with perspiration starting from his forehead and an incident of his childhood in his mind. "In the hall--the long hall." "He was a baby," ventured Beverton. "How could he harm you?" She waited a moment, as though the question puzzled her, then said: "A baby, yes. I was a baby, too." "Where was this long hall?" Again the play of emotion on her features, but no answer. "Was it in a hotel?" "A hotel, yes." "What hotel? Where was it?" "The Mansion House, Main Street, Buffalo." Beverton shook in the knees. She had named the hotel where his parents had stopped while traveling--where he had last walked in his sleep. "Grace," he said, as firmly and gently as he could with his tongue trembling against the roof of his mouth. "He did not mean to hurt you; he did not know you at the time. He will never hurt you. You must never seek him again, either to kill or explain to him. He is satisfied." "Has he forgiven? Does he realize that--that--I--that--" Her face became troubled again, and she reached forth her hands, clutching at the air, as though trying to grasp the elusive memory. "Yes, he has forgiven," said Beverton, steadier of voice now at the apparent success of the experiment. "And you will never seek him again, will you? It is all settled now." "All settled," she repeated, while her countenance softened. "You will not worry any more, will you?" "No more. It is all settled. He has forgiven me." "You will never walk in your sleep again, will you, Grace?" "No, it is all settled. He has forgiven me." Had Beverton sent her to bed now he might have spared himself a life-long puzzle which ever baffled solution; but, with fairly good command of himself, he yielded to curiosity, and asked: "What had you done to him? What had he to forgive?"