Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy; but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture, and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered, but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to the mystery. She was explaining his own book, _The Tempest_. At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh, raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of pain, and plainly embarrassed: "You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm _so_ sorry! Can you overlook--pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!" Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness. Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat, strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute. "Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel better?" As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily, and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden recognition, as he cried: "You!" She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal, she likewise exclaimed: "And _you_!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance, without another word, she abruptly left the room. She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult. And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time, like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later, with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick. * * * * * It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of advertising his book, _The Tempest_ in that city. It was just preceding an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it was then he became acquainted with Jackson.