CHAPTER XXII

DESCRIBETH SOME EVILS OF IMAGINATION “Your poor . . . poor head!” panted Miss Agnes, tenderly busy with moist, cool sponge. Somehow (endued with what desperate strength who shall say?) she had got him back into the arm-chair and Dallas sat there shivering—though now, seeing her tremulous anxiety, he contrived to smile up into her so troubled eyes. “Did I startle you?” he murmured. “Please forgive me!” And taking her small, quivering hand he pressed it reassuringly. “I . . . I’m all right now, Miss Agnes, I’m fine .…