“He is Bruce Brainard, a well-known civil engineer,” he said slowly, halting by the head of the winding staircase. He looked thoughtfully over the banisters before again addressing her. “Brainard is just back from South America. I had no idea my aunt and Millicent knew him so well, why”--in a sudden burst of confidence--“Brainard gave me to understand before dinner that he and Millicent were engaged. Let me know if I can assist you, Miss Deane. Good night,” and barely waiting to hear her mumbled reply he plunged down the stairs. Vera Deane’s return to the sick room was noiseless. She found her patient lying on his side, apparently asleep, one arm shielding his face and leaving exposed his tousled iron-gray hair. Vera glanced at the empty medicine glass on the table by the bed, and a relieved sigh escaped her; evidently Bruce Brainard had obeyed Dr. Noyes’ instructions and swallowed the dose prepared for him. Making no unnecessary sound Vera arranged the room for the night, screening the window so that a draught would not blow directly on Brainard; lighted a night light and, placing a small silver bell on the bed-table within easy reach of the patient, she turned out the acetylene gas jet and glided from the room. Entering the bedroom next to that occupied by Bruce Brainard Vera smoothed the sheets for Craig Porter, lying motionless on his back, and made the paralytic comfortable with fresh, cool pillows; then taking a chair somewhat removed from the bed, she shaded her eyes from the feeble rays of the night light and was soon buried in her own thoughts. Dr. Noyes had made a professional call on Craig Porter earlier in the evening, and he had forbidden Mrs. Porter or her daughter going to the sick room after six o’clock. As the night wore on sounds reached Vera of the departure of guests, and first light then heavy footsteps passing back and forth in the hall indicated that Mrs. Porter and her household were retiring for the night. At last all noise ceased, and Vera, lost in memories of the past, forgot the flight of time. “Tick-tock, tick-tock”--Bruce Brainard’s dulled wits tried to count the strokes, but unavailingly; he had lost all track of time. He was only conscious of eyes glaring down at him. He dared not look up, and for long minutes lay in agony, bathed in profuse perspiration. His eyelids seemed weighed down with lead, but he could not keep his cramped position much longer, and in desperation his eyes flew open as he writhed nearer the bed-table. His breath came in easier gasps as he became aware that the large bedroom was empty, and he passed a feverish, shaking hand across his wet forehead. Pshaw! his imagination was running away with him. But was it? Again he glimpsed eyes gazing at him from a corner of the room--eyes moving steadily nearer and nearer until even the surrounding darkness failed to hide their expression. A sob broke from Brainard, and his hand groped for the bell, only to fall palsied by his side.