In his creaky bed in the old boarding house, he again sought to think, but in vain.

He could only lie awake and stare into the darkness about him, while through his mind ran a muddled conglomeration of foreboding, waking dreams, revamps of the happenings of the last three weeks, memories which brought him nothing save sleeplessness and the knowledge that, so far, he fought a losing fight.
After hours, daylight began to streak the sky.

Fairchild, dull, worn by excitement and fatigue, strove to rise, then laid his head on the pillow for just a moment of rest.

And with that perversity which extreme weariness so often exerts, his eyes closed, and he slept,--to wake at last with the realization that it was late morning, and that some one was pounding on the door.

Fairchild raised his head.
"Is that you, Mother Howard?
I'm getting up, right away." A slight chuckle answered him.
"But this is n't Mother Howard.