A little later Paloma, pale and heavy-eyed, stole into the room, and
Dave's cheerful greeting awoke Mrs. Strange with a jerk.
"So! You're feeling better, aren't you," the latter woman cried, heartily.
"Yes. How did I get here?" Dave asked. "I must have been right sick and troublesome to you."
Paloma smiled and nodded. "Sick! Why, Dave, you frightened us nearly to death! You were clear out of your head."
So that was it. The breakdown had come sooner than he expected, and it had come, moreover, without warning. That was bad—bad! Although Dave's mind was perfectly clear at this moment, he reasoned with a sinking heart that another brain-storm might overtake him at any time. He had imagined that the thing would give a hint of its coming, but evidently it did not.
Mrs. Strange broke into his frowning meditation to ask, "How long since you had a night's sleep?"
"I—Oh, it must be weeks."
"Umph! I thought so. You puzzled that pill-roller, but doctors don't know anything, anyhow. Why, he wanted to wake you up to find out what ailed you! I threatened to scald him if he did."
"I seem to remember talking a good deal," Dave ventured. "I reckon I—said a lot of foolish things." He caught the look that passed between his nurses and its significance distressed him.
Mrs. Strange continued: "That's how we guessed what your trouble was, and that's why I wouldn't let that fool doctor disturb you. Now that you've had a sleep and are all right again, I'm going home and change my clothes. I haven't had them off for two nights."