"Holy smoke!" gasped Farrell. "_Junayn' ash-Shaytan_ ... and did you get what she said after that?" Then, before d'Artois could reply, "It's over now." * * * * * The sleeping girl had ceased writhing and tossing. Her cries had subsided to a drowsy murmuring. The two watchers stared at each other for a moment. "But yes," said d'Artois finally. "I heard it, though it has been several years since I heard any one use such villainous language. It would do credit to one of the dancing-girls in Abu Aswad's dive in Cairo. But this _junayn' ash-Shaytan_, that puzzles me." "Simple!" said Farrell. "Satan's garden." "_Mais oui!_" agreed d'Artois with a touch of impatience. "Only, what is the point?" He frowned fiercely and twisted his mustache. "_Mon vieux_," he said after a moment's reflection, "in this first articulate speech in her sleep we may find a clue to the invisible scourge that leaves her back crossed with welts." Farrell shook his head. "Crazier and crazier," he muttered. "We're all nutty. I am, you are, she is--all of us! Now she's talking Arabic! I'm beginning to wonder whether her back is really beaten or whether we're both suffering the same delusion she is." D'Artois led the way to the door. Farrell followed. "I have been expecting that," he said as he reached for a brief-case lying on the table. He opened it and withdrew a photograph. "Look." Farrell scrutinized the glossy print. "That proves your point," he admitted. "The camera isn't subject to hallucinations or delusions of persecution. Antoinette has been beaten. Severely. The old black-and-blue marks photographed darker than the new, red welts. No argument. I'm not, she isn't, you're not bug-house. That is, _not yet_. But if this doesn't stop soon----" He bit the tip off a fresh cigar, chewed it for a moment, struck light. "Let us be impersonal about it for a moment," suggested d'Artois, "and consider what we have. "First, she tells us that her dreams have become so real that she is confused and wonders during the day which is dream, and which is reality. She dreams that she is in an outlandishly beautiful garden, dim as by moonlight, yet warm as the glow of morning sun. The plants are strange, and the flowers have an unnatural, poison sweetness. "And strangest of all, she herself has a different body, brown-skinned, with blue-black hair, and very large, dark eyes. The other girls, her companions, are also dark," summarized d'Artois. "Now do you see how her first speech in this troubled sleep begins to lend a touch of rationality?" Farrell pondered for a moment, then replied.