"I tell, you he's blind--stone blind. If you doubt me, hold that before his face and see if he flinches." A man's voice sounded in a low growl in response, then all was silent again. Only the ticking of a clock somewhere near me broke the stillness. Whispers, like low, suspicious exchanges of confidence, soon afterwards reached my ears. The door had opened silently, and a few seconds later I felt the soft hand of my protectress again upon my forehead. My sightless eyes were wide open, and by that she, of course, knew that I was awake. "Are you better after your sleep?" the well-cultivated voice inquired concernedly. "Very much," I answered, raising myself upon my elbows. "But I have troubled you far too long, and will go, if you will kindly instruct your servant to call me a cab." "Oh dear no," the voice answered pleasantly. "I couldn't think of allowing you to go home at this hour, and in your weak state, too. It would be madness. Continue your rest, and you will be quite right again in the morning." "You are extremely kind," I protested, "but I really couldn't think of remaining longer." "Would you like to repay me for what you so very generously term my kindness?" she asked. "If so, I would only ask one little favour." "Certainly. I will grant it if it lies within my power," I responded. "Well, it is that you would scribble your name here, in this birthday book of mine. It will be a little souvenir of this evening." "But I cannot write well nowadays. I can't see, you know," I protested. "But you can write your signature. If the handwriting is uneven I will forgive you, in the circumstances," the voice said merrily; and a moment later she placed a pen with a handle of ivory or pearl within my hand. "What day of the month?" inquired the sweet voice. "The second of July," I answered, laughing; and my unknown friend, having opened the book at that page, guided my hand to the paper, whereon I scrawled my name. She took both pen and book, and by the departing swish of her skirts I knew that she had left me and had passed into the adjoining room. A strange picture arose in my mind. Was she beautiful? At any rate her surroundings were elegant, and her low musical voice was that of a young and refined girl of twenty or so. I listened, lying there helpless and sorely puzzled. Again curious whisperings in subdued tones sounded from beyond, but almost at that same moment some one commenced to play upon the piano Chopin's "Andante-Spinato," which prevented me from distinguishing either the words uttered or the trend of the discussion. For several minutes the sound of the piano filled the room, the touch, light and delicate, seeming to be that of a woman, when, of a sudden, there was a loud smashing of glass, and a woman's shrill, piercing scream rang out, accompanied by the sound of some heavy object falling to the floor. In an instant the music ceased, and at the same moment I heard a man's voice cry wildly--