Two years had passed, and with all my professions of interest and regard, for a full year of that time Leo Bergin had not entered my mind, and for the whole two years, he had occupied very little of my thoughts. As a fact, save on one occasion when D. J. Folder, in forgiving jest told me that he needed a man, and asked if I could recommend a young man with “talent, good looks and ambition,” for the position, I do not remember having thought of Leo Bergin.

Absence defaces memory. Ah! how quickly we are forgotten. We spend our brief time upon this showy stage, assuming that we are necessary to the world’s success or pleasure, but when we drop to senseless dust, all save a few, go merrily on, and even they, in a day or a few days, dry their tears and join the happy throng again.

Later, in the autumn of 1900, I was called to Copenhagen on business, and having made the acquaintance of a prominent physician there, I was invited to visit one of the leading hospitals.

In going the rounds of the various wards, we were informed that several new patients had just entered, brought from a ship which had returned from a North Polar voyage. This would satisfy some curiosity, and soon we were among the new patients. There were a dozen in all, mostly Russians, Finns, and Danes, but at one side of the ward we noticed there were two pale-looking fellows, conversing in English.

Instinctively I walked across to their presence, when to my astonishment, gazing earnestly at me, I recognised the sad, pitiful face, of emaciated, health-broken Leo Bergin.

His eyes brightened slightly, he smiled faintly, and reached a feeble faltering hand to meet mine, in friendly greeting. There was time for smiles of waning joy, time for sighs and tears of pity, but for words, the time had well nigh sped, for Leo Bergin was close to the pearly gates.

“Sit close,” said he, “sit close, for I am sailing for another port, and while I don’t know the nature of the climate, there can be nothing better, and nothing worse than I have had in this world, so let the storm howl, and the ship plunge, I am not whining.”

So saying, he slightly turned on his bed, and reaching a thin hand under his pillow, he drew forth a package wrapped in some soft skin, and tied about with twine.

“Here,” said he faintly, “this tells the whole story. It is all good ‘stuff,’ but I place it at your disposal. If you think it better, you may boil it down, and if you make anything out of it, well, pay Folder, for I had a good time with his money, and now I have plenty to last me through. I don’t know how, but some way I knew I should find you, and this,—it is all true, but the dreams of fiction never unfolded anything half so strange.”

I longed for a few more minutes, but the form of Leo Bergin lay limp on the bed. His hands were lax, his brow wore a deathly pallor, and his lips moved slowly in inaudible whispers. I touched his hand, for I wanted one more word, and as he seemed to slightly revive, I said:

“‘Tell my soul, with sorrow laden,’ where have you been?”

He aroused a little, smiled, and pointing to the package, gaspingly said, “It is all there, all there, and I—well, I have been to ‘Symmes’ Hole,’”—and when I looked again upon that placid face, the soul of Leo Bergin had sailed for the other “Port.”

ADJUSTING THE CURTAINS.

Leo Bergin, with neatness and despatch, was comfortably buried, myself being chief mourner, and “after life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.” I was impatient to know the contents of the package, but desiring to enjoy perfect leisure, while unravelling the mystery so intensified by Leo’s earnestness, I reluctantly laid it away, to wait my arrival in London.

Time passed.

I was back at my old quarters in Great Russell Street, London. The weather was so chill, dark, and foggy, that, at four, I had lighted the gas. The fire burned lazily in the small grate. The room was not uncomfortable, but in harmony with the gloomy surroundings. I was touched by a feeling of depressing loneliness. I paced the not very expansive floor, peered through the blackness into the dimly lighted streets, paced again, lighted a cigar, sat and pondered.

Thrown back in an easy chair, dreamingly watching the graceful whirling wreaths of my consoling Havana, my thoughts on random wing soared aimlessly away, to gather up the memories of vanished days. Then, like gladsome youths on holiday, came trooping along the casual incidents of an easy life, my last visit to Venice, my run to Marseilles with Monarco’s party, the stormy voyage along the coast of Spain. Ah! here, in flesh and blood with spare but athletic form, pale scholarly face, pleasing but rather melancholy smile, gentle voice and cordial, arose Leo Bergin; a thought! The form vanished, but the “package” was more substantial, and I hurriedly unpacked my trunk, and drew it forth, just as he had given it me fully three months earlier.

With a thrill of mingled pain and pleasure, I removed the rough twine, and unrolled the leather wrapping. My heart throbbed with emotion, my hand trembled, but my eager eyes beheld a large roll of manuscript neatly tied with familiar tape.

While I had not even a glimpse of the nature of these notes, I did not even guess, or attempt to guess, their character. I knew that Leo Bergin, when quite alive, had talent and ambition—the good looks for this occasion I will omit—and I knew this was a most interesting, if not an important “find.”

In contemplating the situation, as I leisurely removed all surplus or superfluous covering, a small scrap of soiled and crumpled paper fell to the floor, and on picking it up, I was not a little surprised to see that it was an especial note. It was written in a feeble, but legible hand, and read as follows:—

This was another side of the character of Leo Bergin. Mentally, I was in what may, I think with some propriety, be termed a state of deeply interested confusion. I unrolled and exposed to view the whole package. It was voluminous. It was composed of some twenty writing tablets, each with a large number of thin sheets, foolscap size. These tablets were consecutively numbered, the pages were closely written on one side, the first few being in a round neat hand, the skill rather weakening as the work proceeded.

I was too eager for a general inspection to deliberately peruse any particular portion or feature of the whole, but there was a sufficient mass of what seemed by the painstaking methods to make a large volume.

But the mystery still deepened. Where, for what purpose, and under what circumstances, was the work done? There were here and there strange names of places, strange personages and strange events recorded. Was Leo Bergin mad? or was there, in fact, somewhere passing events that were indeed stranger to us than fiction?

My cigar went out, the fire had “followed suit,” I looked at my watch with some impatience, and it showed the “wee sma’ hours” had come. I was perplexed, paced the floor, and looking out into the street, I saw how the gusts of wind drove the snow and sleet along with the fury of a demon. I shuddered as I paced the floor, but how could I unravel the mystery, the mystery that perplexed me?

“Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,” I said again, “Where is the key?” for Leo Bergin had talent and ambition, and while he seemed erratic, he was no visionary dreamer. While Leo Bergin lacked a sense of proportion, even in his foibles he was practical, and had at least one eye on the main chance.

“No,” said I, “Leo Bergin was no dreamer,” he had no fads, no superstitions, and little imagination, and he was a true Bohemian. He had a “nose for news,” a genius for work, and a love for adventure that all the fiends in and out of Hades could not thwart.

But how could I unravel the mystery? Where the de’il had he been for two long years? Who was Symmes? And if Symmes had a hole, where was it?

Here I paused—an idea struck me. “I am a fool,” said I—but I would rave should any one less informed regarding my weakness say so. Ah! I have it. Here it is, for he said, on our parting, as he handed it to me, “It is a record of every day’s doings and events.” Yes, and he said, on our parting at Lisbon, “I made my new acquaintance, and laid my plans for future action yesterday. I have begun my work, and I shall keep a truthful record of every day’s doings and events, and on my return I will place it at your disposal.”

“Plain enough, it is all there, and to-morrow I shall begin,” said I, “to unravel this mysterious story.”