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.