G. Selden, awakening to consciousness two days later, lay and stared at the chintz covering of the top of his four-post bed through a few minutes of vacant amazement. It was a four-post bed he was lying on, wasn't it? And his leg was bandaged and felt unmovable. The last thing he remembered was going down an incline in a tree-bordered avenue. There was nothing more. He had been all right then. Was this a four-post bed or was it not? Yes, it was. And was it part of the furnishings of a swell bedroom--the kind of bedroom he had never been in before? Tip top, in fact? He stared and tried to recall things--but could not, and in his bewilderment exclaimed aloud. “Well,” he said, “if this ain't the limit! You may search ME!” A respectable person in a white apron came to him from the other side of the room. It was Buttle's wife, who had been hastily called in. “Sh--sh,” she said soothingly. “Don't you worry. Nobody ain't goin' to search you. Nobody ain't. There! Sh, sh, sh,” rather as if he were a baby. Beginning to be conscious of a curious sense of weakness, Selden lay and stared at her in a helplessness which might have been considered pathetic. Perhaps he had got “bats in his belfry,” and there was no use in talking. At that moment, however, the door opened and a young lady entered. She was “a looker,” G. Selden's weakness did not interfere with his perceiving. “A looker, by gee!” She was dressed, as if for going out, in softly tinted, exquisite things, and a large, strange hydrangea blue flower under the brim of her hat rested on soft and full black hair. The black hair gave him a clue. It was hair like that he had seen as Reuben S. Vanderpoel's daughter rode by when he stood at the park gates at Mount Dunstan. “Bats in his belfry,” of course. “How is he?” she said to the nurse. “He's been seeming comfortable all day, miss,” the woman answered, “but he's light-headed yet. He opened his eyes quite sensible looking a bit ago, but he spoke queer. He said something was the limit, and that we might search him.” Betty approached the bedside to look at him, and meeting the disturbed inquiry in his uplifted eyes, laughed, because, seeing that he was not delirious, she thought she understood. She had not lived in New York without hearing its argot, and she realised that the exclamation which had appeared delirium to Mrs. Buttle had probably indicated that the unexplainableness of the situation in which G. Selden found himself struck him as reaching the limit of probability, and that the most extended search of his person would fail to reveal any clue to satisfactory explanation. She bent over him, with her laugh still shining in her eyes. “I hope you feel better. Can you tell me?” she said. His voice was not strong, but his answer was that of a young man who knew what he was saying. “If I'm not off my head, ma'am, I'm quite comfortable, thank you,” he replied.