"At three o"clock in your room, Hotel Vice-Regent. Good morning, Captain."
"Good morning," said Harren dreamily, and walked away, head bent, gray eyes lost in retrospection, and on his lean, bronzed, attractive face an afterglow of color wholly becoming.
CHAPTER IX
When the Tracer of Lost Persons entered Captain Harren"s room at the Hotel Vice-Regent that afternoon he found the young man standing at a center table, pencil in hand, studying a sheet of paper which was covered with letters and figures.
The two men eyed one another in silence for a moment, then Harren pointed grimly to the confusion of letters and figures covering dozens of scattered sheets lying on the table.
"That"s part of my madness," he said with a short laugh. "Can you make anything of such lunatic work?"
The Tracer picked up a sheet of paper covered with letters of the alphabet and Roman and Arabic numerals. He dropped it presently and picked up another comparatively blank sheet, on which were the following figures:
[Ill.u.s.tration: Cryptographic symbols]
He studied it for a while, then glanced interrogatively at Harren.
"It"s nothing," said Harren. "I"ve been groping for three years--but it"s no use. That"s lunatics" work." He wheeled squarely on his heels, looking straight at the Tracer. "_Do_ you think I"ve had a touch of the sun?"
"No," said Mr. Keen, drawing a chair to the table. "Saner men than you or I have spent a lifetime over this so-called Seal of Solomon." He laid his finger on the two symbols--
[Ill.u.s.tration: Cryptographic symbols]
Then, looking across the table at Harren: "What," he asked, "has the Seal of Solomon to do with your case?"
"_She_--" muttered Harren, and fell silent.
The Tracer waited; Harren said nothing.
"Where is the photograph?"
Harren unlocked a drawer in the table, hesitated, looked strangely at the Tracer.
"Mr. Keen," he said, "there is nothing on earth I hold more sacred than this. There is only one thing in the world that could justify me in showing it to a living soul--my--my desire to find--her--"
"No," said Keen coolly, "that is not enough to justify you--the mere desire to find the living original of this apparition. Nothing could justify your showing it unless you love her."
Harren held the picture tightly, staring full at the Tracer. A dull flush mounted to his forehead, and very slowly he laid the picture before the Tracer of Lost Persons.
Minute after minute sped while the Tracer bent above the photograph, his finely modeled features absolutely devoid of expression. Harren had drawn his chair beside him, and now sat leaning forward, bronzed cheek resting in his hand, staring fixedly at the picture.
"When was this--this photograph taken?" asked the Tracer quietly.
"The day after I arrived in New York. I was here, alone, smoking my pipe and glancing over the evening paper just before dressing for dinner. It was growing rather dark in the room; I had not turned on the electric light. My camera lay on the table--there it is!--that kodak. I had taken a few snapshots on shipboard; there was one film left."
He leaned more heavily on his elbow, eyes fixed upon the picture.
"It was almost dark," he repeated. "I laid aside the evening paper and stood up, thinking about dressing for dinner, when my eyes happened to fall on the camera. It occurred to me that I might as well unload it, let the unused film go, and send the roll to be developed and printed; and I picked up the camera--"
"Yes," said the Tracer softly.
"I picked it up and was starting toward the window where there remained enough daylight to see by--"
The Tracer nodded gently.
"Then I saw _her_!" said Harren under his breath.
"Where?"
"There--standing by that window. You can see the window and curtain in the photograph."
The Tracer gazed intently at the picture.
"She looked at me," said Harren, steadying his voice. "She was as real as you are, and she stood there, smiling faintly, her dark, lovely eyes meeting mine."
"Did you speak?"
"No."
"How long did she remain there?"
"I don"t know--time seemed to stop--the world--everything grew still.
. . . Then, little by little, something began to stir under my stunned senses--that germ of misgiving, that dreadful doubt of my own sanity.
. . . I scarcely knew what I was doing when I took the photograph; besides, it had grown quite dark, and I could scarcely see her." He drew himself erect with a nervous movement. "How on earth could I have obtained that photograph of her in the darkness?" he demanded.
"N-rays," said the Tracer coolly. "It has been done in France."
"Yes, from living people, but--"
"What the N-ray is in living organisms, we must call, for lack of a better term, the subaura in the phantom."
They bent over the photograph together. Presently the Tracer said: "She is very, very beautiful?"
Harren"s dry lips unclosed, but he uttered no sound.
"She is beautiful, is she not?" repeated the Tracer, turning to look at the young man.
"Can you not see she is?" he asked impatiently.
"No," said the Tracer.
Harren stared at him.
"Captain Harren," continued the Tracer, "I can see nothing upon this bit of paper that resembles in the remotest degree a human face or figure."