The old woman put out her hand and seized the girl's arm. "Again?" she demanded. "Yes! Yes! Oh, Marie, what does it all mean?" "Ta, ta, cherie. Rest your head here." She drew the young woman down beside her. "You went out there all alone. You are brave, but you should not have done that. You should have taken me with you. See, now, I shall get well. I shall arise at once. I never knew the black horses to fail me." Marie struggled to her elbow and threw off the clothes. But Elaine covered her up tight again, forcing her to lie still. "Stay here quietly until I come back," she insisted. "I shall not be gone but a minute." She hurried to her own room, trying to understand what the meaning of this impossible situation might be. Ben was here and Ben was in the bungalow and--there was the purse. There was the chance, of course, that Marie was mistaken, but Marie did not make such mistakes as this. Then one of the two men was not Ben. She took out again the pocket-book she had found and stared at it as though in hope that she might receive her answer through this. Then with a perplexed gasp, she threw it into one of the upset drawers, as though it burned her fingers. She went downstairs to Donaldson. For reasons of her own she did not dare to tell him of this fresh complication, but she insisted that he should bother himself no more to-night with the matter. "You should go straight back home and get some sleep," she told him. Home? The word was flat again. "And you?" he inquired. "I shall try to sleep, too." "You have a bolt on your door?" "Yes." "Will you promise to slide it before you retire?" She nodded. "If you only had a telephone in your room."