I do not know how long I lay on the thick rug before the mirror. It was perhaps better than an hour, judging from the position of the sun coming through the curtains.

I rose to my hands and knees on the rug and looked at myself in the mirror. I screamed.

I was going mad!

I threw my hands to my head, and shook my head.

I locked my fingers in the band at my throat, trying to tear it from my neck. It had been placed on me while I was unconscious!

About my throat, snugly, there was a graceful, gleaming band of steel. Gathering my wits I simply reached behind my neck to release the catch, and remove it. My fingers fumbled. I could not find the release. I turned it slowly, carefully, because it fitted rather closely. I examined it in the mirror. There was no release, no catch. Only a small, heavy lock, and a place where a tiny key might fit. It had been locked on my throat! There was printing on the band, but I could not read it. It was not in a script I knew!

Once again the room seemed to go dark, and swirl, but I fought desperately to retain consciousness.

Someone had been in the room to place the band to my neck. He might still be here.

With my head down, hair falling to the rug, on my hands and knees, I shook my head. I tore at the pile on the rug. I would not lose consciousness. I must keep my wits.

I looked about the room.

My heart nearly stopped. It was empty.

I crawled to the telephone on the night table by the bed. I lifted it with great care, that not the slightest sound be made. There was no dial tone. The cord hung freely. Tears stung my eyes.

There was another phone in the living room, but it was on the other side of the door. I was afraid to open the door. I glanced toward the bathroom. That room, too, frightened me. I did not know what might be within it.