“She must have fallen against the grate,” he answered. His eyes grew dark as they encountered the scar. “As soon as she’s conscious tell me.” A few minutes later, the young widow found him sitting on a chair under a lamp in the hall. “Well,” he said eagerly, “how is she?” “She’s come back to her senses all right. But she doesn’t seem to want to tell what he took. She says it was a paper, and that’s all, and that she never saw him before. Mother doesn’t think we ought to worry her. She says she’s got a fever, and she’s going to give her medicine to make her sleep, and not to disturb her till she wakes up. She’s all broken up and sort of limp and trembly.” “Well, I suppose the señora knows best. It’ll be light soon now, and I’ll go to the police station. The señora and you will stay with her?” “O yes,” said Mrs. Garcia, the younger. “My goodness, what a night it’s been! It’s lucky the man didn’t get her money. There was quite a lot; about five hundred dollars, I should think. Oh, my curl papers! I forget them. Gracious, what a sight I must look!” and she shuffled down the stairs. Barron sat on till the dawn broke gray through the hall window. He was beginning to wonder if this girl was the central figure of some drama, secret, intricate and unsuspected, which was working out to its conclusion. CHAPTER XXIII THE LOST VOICE “There may be heaven; there must be hell; Meantime there is our earth here--well!” --BROWNING. The fears of Mrs. Garcia held Barron to the house till the morning light was fully established. This was late, even for the winter season, as the rain still fell heavily, retarding the coming of day with a leaden veil. He made his report at the police station, and then went down town to his office where business detained him till noon. It was his habit to lunch at the Lick House, but to-day he hurried back to the Garcias’, striding up the series of hills at top speed, urged on by his desire to hear news of Mariposa. He burst into the house to find it silent--the hall empty. As he was hanging his hat on the rack, young Mrs. Garcia appeared from the kitchen, her bang somewhat limp, though it was still early in the day, her face looking small and peaked after her exciting night’s vigil. Mariposa was still asleep, she said in answer to his query. The señora had given her a powerful sleeping draft and had said that the rest would be the best restorative after such a shock. If, when she waked, she showed symptoms of suffering or prostration, they would send for the doctor. “Have you found her paper?” she asked anxiously. “She seemed in such a way about it last night.” He muttered a preoccupied answer, mentioning his visit to the police station. “What was it, anyway? Do _you_ know?” inquired the young woman who was not exempt from the weaknesses of her sex. “Some legal document, I think, but I don’t know. The police can’t do much till they know what it is.”