Something was wrong. He could swear he had been sitting but a moment before with his back against the giant pillar of an Ancient Egyptian building, staring at a window high up in a temple wall. In the moonlight he had seen a beautiful priestess standing at this window; and he had been waiting patiently--patiently--for a black cloud to pass, a cloud that had suddenly obscured the moon and hidden the slender figure. Yes, those were the facts, he felt fairly confident. He opened his eyes again. He saw a small, very clean white room; and he was lying in a very clean white bed. He seemed to be propped up in some way, and he experienced great difficulty in moving his head, together with great disinclination to do so because of a dull pain above his eyes. There were some medicine bottles and cups upon a glass-topped table, and there was a tall white screen of some very glossy material. The only spot of colour in the room was a bowl filled with red roses, which also stood upon the table. He wondered idly what was behind the screen, and then closed his eyes once more. There was some mistake. No doubt the explanation was simple enough, but his brain seemed to be tired, physically tired. He found himself incapable of grappling with the problem. In one respect, of course, he must have been wrong: In regard to the Egyptian temple. He had never been in Egypt. In his idea that he lay in this unfamiliar white room, no doubt he was wrong, also; although the red roses were suspiciously like the handiwork of his Aunt Micky. Without Barry becoming aware of any movement, a cool hand was presently laid upon his forehead. For the third time he raised weary lids--and found himself looking into a pair of kindly eyes, their kindliness magnified by the glasses which their owner wore. A white-capped nurse was bending over him! She was entirely dressed in white, too. Everything in the place seemed to be white, except the roses, which were red, and the nurse’s eyes, which were blue. “Ah!” she said, speaking in a low, soothing voice which yet had a note of gaiety in it, “so you have decided to wake up.” Barry Cumberland tried to say Yes, but only achieved a whisper. Great heavens! He had never felt so cheap in his life! What was it all about? “Don’t bother to talk,” the soothing voice went on. “When you have had another little sleep you will feel ever so much better. I have brought you a drink.” She held a glass to his lips. He drank, looking into the kindly, smiling eyes; and fell asleep again. The next time he awoke, the nurse was sitting in a chair beside him, reading. Presumably it was night, for a silk-shaded lamp was lighted upon the table at her elbow. Barry stirred slightly and turned in her direction. She looked up at once. “Good-evening,” she said; “is there anything you want?” “No, thank you.” His voice was very low, but at least he could make himself understand. “Except--where am I?”