“Well,” the other woman commented, “he doesn’t seem to have done you a world of good, and you better try another.”

“No,” said Mrs. Marteen with decision, “no, I don’t want one—­not now, anyway.  It’s a headache.  May I have some tea?  Then I’ll lie quiet, if you’ll lower that blind, please.”

“I’m sorry Mrs. Bell’s away, or I’d send for her,” ventured the landlady.

“Mrs. Bell?” the sick woman echoed with the same tone of puzzled surprise.  “Why, she’s away—­yes—­she’s away.”  She sank back among the pillows and waved a dismissing hand.

Still the landlady waited.  She deemed it most unwise not to call a doctor, but feared to make herself responsible for the bill if her guest refused.  But she had seen enough to convince her that the lady’s visible possessions were ample to cover any bill she might run up through illness, provided, of course, it were not contagious.  She turned reluctantly and descended to the kitchen to brew the desired tea.

Left alone, the patient sat up and looked about her with strained and frightened eyes.  Then she began to wring her hands, slowly, as if such a gesture of torment was foreign to her habit.  Her wide, clear brow knitted with puzzled fear.  Her lips were distorted as one who would cry out and was held dumb.  Presently she spoke.

“Where am I?” There was a long pause of nerve-racking effort as she strove to remember. “Who am I?” she cried hysterically.  She sprang out of bed and ran to the mirror over the dressing table.  The face that looked back at her was familiar, but she could not give it its name.  A muffled scream escaped her lips, and she held her clenched fists to her temples as if she feared her brain would burst.  “Martin!” she said at last.  “Martin—­she called me Mrs. Martin.  Who is she?  When did I come here?”

She seized her dressing case and went through its contents.  Each article was familiar; they were hers; she knew their faults and advantages.  The letter case had a spot on the back; she turned it over and found it there.  Letter case—­the thought was an aspiration.  With trembling eagerness she clutched at the papers in the side pocket.  Yes, there were letters.  She read the address, “Mrs. Martin Marteen”—­yes, that was herself.  How strange!  She had forgotten.  The address was a steamer—­that seemed possible.  There was a journey, a long journey—­she vaguely recalled that.  But why?  Where?  She read the notes eagerly; casual bon voyage and good wishes; letters referring to books, flowers or bonbons.  The signatures were all familiar, but no corresponding image rose in her brain.  The last she read gave her a distinct feeling of affection, of admiration, though the signature “M.G.” meant nothing.  She reread the few scrawled sentences with a longing that frightened her.  Who was M.G.—­that her bound and gagged mentality cried out for?  She felt if she could only reach that mysterious identity all would be well.  M.G. would bring everything right.