thing in the sound of that sustained respiration which was incompatible with the notion of a feminine burglar.
She came a little forward into the room, doubtfully, as if uncertain of her surroundings. She stumbled against a chair, the contact seeming to startle her. I saw her put her hand up to her head, with the gesture of one who was trying to collect her thoughts.
"I can't think where I am."
The words broke the silence in the oddest manner. The voice was sweet, soft, clear—unmistakably a lady's. It thrilled me strangely. Nothing which had gone before had disconcerted me so much—it was an utterance of such extreme simplicity. Was it possible that the lady was a somnambulist, who, held in the thraldom of that curious disease, had woke to find herself in a stranger's bedroom? If that was the case, what was I to do? How could I explain the situation, without unduly startling her?
The question was answered for me. I must unconsciously have fidgeted. All at once her face was turned towards me. She exclaimed:
"Who's that?"
I arrived at an instant resolution—replying with the most matter-of-fact air of which I was capable.
"Do not be alarmed—it is I, John Ferguson.
