He plunged into the forest. His footsteps made no sound on the soft moss as he glided through wooded aisles and under giant trees. Once well into the deep woods, he turned to look behind him. He saw a shadow, blacker than the forest-gloom, stealthily slipping from tree to tree. He looked no more. For hours he traveled on and on, never stopping, never looking backward, never listening, intent only on placing a great distance between him and his pursuer.
He came upon a swamp where his feet sank in the soft earth, and through all the night, with tireless strength and fateful resolve, he toiled into this dreamy waste of woods and waters, until at length a huge black rock loomed up in his way. He ascended to its summit and looked beyond.
It seemed now that he had reached his destination. Wood spirits and phantoms of night would mourn over him, but they would keep his secret. He peered across a shining lake, and tried to pierce the gloom. No living thing moved before his vision. Silver rippling waves shimmered under that starlit sky; tall weird pines waved gently in the night breeze; slender cedars, resembling spectres, reared their heads toward the blue-black vault of heaven. He listened intently. There was a faint rustling of the few leaves left upon the oaks. The strange voices that had always haunted him, the murmuring of river waters, or whispering of maidens, or muttering of women were now clear.
Suddenly two white forms came gliding across the waters. The face of one was that of a young girl. Golden hair clustered round the face and over the fair brow. The lips smiled with mournful sweetness. The other form seemed instinct with life. The face was that of a living, breathing girl, soulful, passionate, her arms outstretched, her eyes shining with a strange hopeful light.
Down, down, down he fell and sank through chill depths, falling slowly, falling softly. The cool waters passed; he floated through misty, shadowy space. An infinitude of silence enclosed him. Then a dim and sullen roar of waters came to his ears, borne faintly, then stronger, on a breeze that was not of earth. Anguish and despair tinged that sodden wind. Weird and terrible came a cry. Steaming, boiling, burning, rumbling chaos—a fearful rushing sullen water! Then a flash of light like a falling star sped out of the dark clouds.
Lane found himself sitting up in bed, wet and shaking. The room was dark. Some one was pounding on the door.
“Hello, Lane, are you there?” called a man's deep voice.
“Yes. What's wanted?” answered Lane.
The door opened wide, impelled by a powerful arm. Light from the hallway streamed in over the burly form of a man in a heavy coat. He stood in the doorway evidently trying to see.
“Sick in bed, hey?” he queried, with gruff kind voice.
“I guess I am. Who're you?”
“I'm Joshua Iden and I've come to pack you out of here,” he said.
“No!” protested Lane, faintly.
“Your wife is downstairs in a taxi waiting,” went on his strange visitor.
“My wife!” whispered Lane.
“Yes. Mel Iden, my daughter. You've forgotten maybe, but she hasn't. She learned to-day from Doctor Bronson how ill you were. And so she's come to take you home.”
Mel Iden! The name seemed a part of the past. This was only another dream, thought Lane, and slowly fell back upon his bed.
“Say, aren't you able to sit up?” queried this visitor Lane took for the spectre of a dream. He advanced into the room. He grasped Lane with firm hand. And then Lane realized this was no nightmare. He began to shake.
“Sit up?” he echoed, vaguely. “Sure I can.... You're Mel's father?”
“Yes,” replied the other. “Come, get out of this.... Well, you haven't much dressing to do. And that's good.... Steady there.”
As he rose, Lane would have fallen but for a quick move of Iden's.
“Only shoes and coat,” said Lane, fumbling around. “They're somewhere.”
“Here you are.... Let me help.... There. Have you an overcoat?”
“No,” replied Lane.
“Well, there's a robe in the taxi. Come on now. I'll come back and pack your belongings.”
He put an arm under Lane's and led him out into the hall and down the dim stairway to the street. Under the yellow light Lane saw a cab, toward which Iden urged him. Lane knew that he moved, but he seemed not to have any feeling in his legs. The cabman put a hand back to open the door.
“Mel, here he is,” called out Iden, cheerfully.
Lane felt himself being pushed into the cab. His knees failed and he sank forward, even as he saw Mel's face.
“Daren!” she cried, and caught him.
Then all went black.
CHAPTER XXI.
Lane's return to consciousness was an awakening into what seemed as unreal and unbelievable as any of his morbid dreams.
But he knew that his mind was clear. It did not take him a moment to realize from the feel of his body and the fact that he could not lift his hand that he had been prostrate a long time.
The room he lay in was strange to him. It had a neatness and cleanliness that spoke of a woman's care. It
