It was close upon three o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Nash awoke and called Miriam by name. "I am so thirsty," she complained, as the girl bent over her. "Couldn't I have some orange juice?" "Certainly," and Miriam went over to the table on which she kept her supplies. The oranges were there, but hunt as she might, she could find no knife. With a few uncomplimentary comments on Martha's carelessness in neglecting to bring her one when she carried her night lunch upstairs, Miriam hastened down to the pantry, after a brief word of explanation to Mrs. Nash. Mrs. Nash could see from her position in the bed the hall door which Miriam had left ajar; from there her gaze shifted to the lighted lamp at the farther end of the room, and then she closed her eyes. When she opened them the bedroom was in darkness. As Mrs. Nash lay speechless with surprise, she grew conscious that some one beside herself was in the room, and a faint, scraping noise sounded closer and closer to the bed. Suddenly something soft brushed across the back of her hand lying on the edge of her bed. Turning her hand over with lightning speed, her fingers closed spasmodically upon some object, and a cry escaped her. Miriam, halfway up the stairs, covered the distance to her bedroom with flying feet as the low cry came to her ears. She faltered in consternation at sight of the utter darkness. Mrs. Nash caught sight of her white uniform as she stood in the doorway, outlined by the light behind her in the hall. "Bring in the lamp," she directed, unaware that her voice was hoarse from excitement, and Miriam obeyed her instantly. When she reached the bedside, Mrs. Nash was leaning upon her elbow, a false beard suspended from her hand. "I almost got him," she exclaimed in triumph, then fainted quietly away. CHAPTER XIV THE WILL OF HATE DOCTOR ROBERTS leaned back in his chair and stared at Guy Trenholm. "So, Paul, poor lad, was stabbed with that vicious-looking nut pick," he exclaimed, pointing to where it lay on the table in the sunparlor of Abbott's Lodge. "And Mrs. Nash was awakened last night by a disguised man and succeeded in dragging off his false beard. Upon my word--what next?" The two men, with Alan Mason, looking wretchedly ill, making a poor third in their conversation, were waiting patiently for the arrival from Washington of the lawyer employed by Paul Abbott, who had signified his intention of reaching there at ten o'clock. It was then eleven, as Alan's frequent glances at his watch assured him, and his nervousness was increasing. He looked up furtively at Roberts at the latter's question. "Did Mrs. Nash recognize the man?" he asked. Roberts shook his head. "She said she was unable to make out if it was a man or a woman--" "A woman!" Alan dropped the penknife with which he was fiddling and half rose. "_A woman?_ Why, that's a man's beard in your hand, Guy."