CHAPTER XXVI
On the Brink
Donaldson was aroused by the dog which was at the door barking excitedly. It was broad daylight. As Donaldson sprang up he heard the brisk approach of footsteps, and the next second a key fumbling in the lock. Before he had fully recovered his senses the door swung open, and Barstow, tanned and ruddy, burst in. Donaldson stared at him and he stared at Donaldson. Then, striding over the dog, who yelped in protest at this treatment, Barstow approached the haggard, unshaven man who faced him.
"Good Heavens, Peter!" he cried, "what ails you?"
Donaldson put out his hand and the other grasped it with the clasp of a man in perfect health.
"Can't you speak?" he demanded. "What's the matter with you?"
"I 'm glad to see you," answered Donaldson.
"But what are you doing here in this condition? Are you sick?"
"No, I 'm not sick. I lay down on the sofa and I guess I fell asleep."
"You look as though you had been sleeping there a month. Sit down, man. You have a fever."