"Sick in bed, hey?" he queried, with gruff kind voice. "I guess I am. Who're you?" "I'm Joshua Iden and I've come to pack you out of here," he said. "No!" protested Lane, faintly. "Your wife is downstairs in a taxi waiting," went on his strange visitor. "My wife!" whispered Lane. "Yes. Mel Iden, my daughter. You've forgotten maybe, but she hasn't. She learned to-day from Doctor Bronson how ill you were. And so she's come to take you home." Mel Iden! The name seemed a part of the past. This was only another dream, thought Lane, and slowly fell back upon his bed. "Say, aren't you able to sit up?" queried this visitor Lane took for the spectre of a dream. He advanced into the room. He grasped Lane with firm hand. And then Lane realized this was no nightmare. He began to shake. "Sit up?" he echoed, vaguely. "Sure I can.... You're Mel's father?" "Yes," replied the other. "Come, get out of this.... Well, you haven't much dressing to do. And that's good.... Steady there." As he rose, Lane would have fallen but for a quick move of Iden's. "Only shoes and coat," said Lane, fumbling around. "They're somewhere." "Here you are.... Let me help.... There. Have you an overcoat?" "No," replied Lane. "Well, there's a robe in the taxi. Come on now. I'll come back and pack your belongings." He put an arm under Lane's and led him out into the hall and down the dim stairway to the street. Under the yellow light Lane saw a cab, toward which Iden urged him. Lane knew that he moved, but he seemed not to have any feeling in his legs. The cabman put a hand back to open the door. "Mel, here he is," called out Iden, cheerfully. Lane felt himself being pushed into the cab. His knees failed and he sank forward, even as he saw Mel's face. "Daren!" she cried, and caught him. Then all went black. CHAPTER XXI Lane's return to consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams. But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift his hand that he had been prostrate a long time. The room he lay in was strange to him. It had a neatness and cleanliness that spoke of a woman's care. It had two small windows, one of which was open. Sunshine flooded in, and the twitter of swallows and hum of bees filled the air outside. Lane could scarcely believe his senses. A warm fragrance floated in. Spring! What struck Lane then most singularly was the fact of the silence. There were no city sounds. This was not the Iden home. Presently he heard soft footfalls downstairs, and a low voice, as of some one humming a tune. What then had happened? As if in answer to his query there came from below a sound of heavy footfalls on a porch, the opening and closing of a door, a man's cheery voice, and then steps on the stairs. The door opened and Doctor Bronson entered. "Hello, Doc," said Lane, in a very faint voice.