Left alone, I began thinking of Charlotte. I loved her; of that I was certain. I could not compare her with the Nervina. She was like myself, human. I had known her since boyhood. The other was out of the ether; my love for her was something different; she was of dreams and moonbeams; there was a film about her beauty, illusion; she was of spirit.

I wrote a note to the detective and left it upon my desk. After that I packed a suitcase and hurried to the station. If I was going I would do it at once, I could not trust myself too far. This visit had been like a breath of air; for the moment I was away from the isolation. The loneliness and the weariness! How I dreaded it! I was only free from it for a few moments. On the train it came back upon me and in a manner that was startling.

I had purchased my ticket. When the conductor came through he passed me. He gathered tickets all about me; but he did not notice me. At first I paid no attention; but when he had gone through the car several times I held up my ticket. He did not stop. It was not until I had touched him that he gave me a bit of attention.

“Where have you been sitting?” he asked.

I pointed to the seat. He frowned slightly.

“There?” he asked. “Did you say you were sitting in that seat? Where did you get on?”

“At Townsend.”

“Queer,” he answered; he punched the ticket. “Queer. I passed that seat several times. It was empty!”

Empty! It was almost a shock. Could it be that my isolation was becoming physical as well as mental? What was this gulf that was widening between myself and my fellows?

It was the beginning of another phase. I have noticed it many times; on the street, in public places, everywhere. I thread in and out among men. Sometimes they see me, sometimes they don't. It is strange. I feel at times as though I might be vanishing out of the world!

It was late when I reached my old home; but the lights were still burning. My favourite dog, Queen, was on the veranda. As I came up the steps she growled slightly, but on recognition went into a series of circles about the porch. My father opened the door. I stepped inside. He touched me on the shoulder, his jaw dropped.

“Harry!” he exclaimed.

Was it as bad as that? How much meaning may be placed in a single intonation! I was weary to the point of exhaustion. The ride upon the train had been too much.

My mother came in. For some moments I was busy protesting my health. But it was useless; it wasn't until I had partaken of a few of the old nostrums that I could placate her.

“Work, work, work, my boy,” said my father, “nothing but work. It really won't do. You're a shadow. You must take a vacation. Go to the mountains; forget your practice for a short time.”

I didn't tell them. Why should I? I decided right then it was my own battle. It was enough for me without casting the worry upon others. Yet I could not see Charlotte without calling on my parents.

As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons'. Someone had seen me in town. Charlotte was waiting. She was the same beautiful girl I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the laughing mouth and the gladness. But she was not glad now. It was almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more personal. She clung to me almost in terror. I didn't realise I had gone down so much. I knew my weariness; but I hadn't thought my appearance so dejected. I remembered Watson. He had been wan, pale, forlorn. After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the moonlight.

It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under the elm trees. Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my arm with the eagerness of possession. I could not but compare her with Nervina. There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender, affectionate, the girl of my boyhood. I had known her all my life; there was no doubt of our love.

Who was the other? She was something higher, out of mystery, out of life—almost—out of the moonbeams. I stopped and looked up. The great full orb was shining. I didn't know that I spoke.

“Harry,” asked Charlotte, “who is the Nervina?”

Had I spoken?

“What do you know about the Nervina?” I asked.

“She has been to see me. She told me. She said you would be here tonight. I was waiting. She is very beautiful. I never saw anyone like her. She is wonderful!”

“What did she say?”

“She! Oh, Harry. Tell me. I have waited. Something has happened. Tell me. You have told me nothing. You are not like the old Harry.”

“Tell me about the Nervina. What did she say? Charlotte, tell me everything. Am I so much different from the old Harry?”

She clutched at my arm fearfully; she looked into my eyes.

“Oh,” she said, “how can you say it? You haven't laughed once. You are melancholy; you are pale, drawn, haggard. You keep muttering. You are not the old Harry. Is it this Nervina? At first I thought she loved you; but she does not. She wanted to know all about you, and about our love. She was so interested. What is this danger?”

I didn't answer.

“You must tell me. This ring? She said that you must give it to me. What is it?” she insisted.

“Did she ask that? She told you to take the ring? My dear,” I asked, “if it were the ring and it were so sinister would I be a man to give it to my loved one?”

“It would not hurt me.”

But I would not. Something warned me. It was a ruse to get it out of my possession. The whole thing was haunting, weird, ghostly. Always I could hear Watson. I still had a small quota of courage and will-power. I clung steadfastly to my purpose.

It was a sad three hours. Poor Charlotte! I shall never forget it. It is the hardest task on earth to deny one's loved one.

She had grown into my heart and into its possession. She clung to me tenderly, tearfully. I could not tell her. Her feminine instinct sensed disaster. In spite of her tears I insisted. When I kissed her goodnight she did not speak. But she looked up at me through her tears. It was the hardest thing of all for me to bear.