time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or
a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her
rushing on for something that never happened. Each manuscript was
like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject.
Abruptly would come the end. It was as if she had come upon the
beautiful marble facade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter,
and behind the door--nothing.

She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. The word
"criticism" had no concrete meaning to her then; no more than
"compromise." Some innate sense of balance told her that something
was wrong with these tales. She could not explain in words why they
disappointed her or that she was disappointed.

Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. At
the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she
was; which was something in their favour.

"My coat!"

Ruth did not move but stared astonishedly at the patient.

"My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.

[Illustration: _Distinctive Pictures Corporation. The Ragged Edge._
A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.]

CHAPTER XI

The second call energized her into action. She dropped the
manuscripts and swiftly brought the coat to him, noting that a
button hung loose. Later, she would sew it on.

"What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat.

"Fold it ... under the pillow."

This she did carefully, but inwardly commenting that he was still
in the realm of strange fancies. Wanting his coat, when he must
have known that the pockets were empty! But the effort to talk had
cost him something. The performance over, he relaxed and closed his
eyes. Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on
his forehead and under the nether lip. She wet some absorbent
cotton with alcohol and refreshed his face and neck. This done, she
waited at the side of the bed; but he gave no sign that he was
conscious of her nearness.

The poor boy, wanting his empty coat! The incident, however, caused
her to review the recent events. It was now evident that he had not
been normal that first day. Perhaps he had had money in the coat,
back in Hong-Kong, and had been robbed without knowing it. Perhaps
these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered
in days. His letter of credit; probably that was it; and, observing
the strangeness of the room he was in, his first concern on
returning to consciousness would