ding once handsome, now worn, with nothing
inscribed on its pages.

For a time, the physician and skipper were puzzled as to the next
step. The physician was confident that the eyes, which gazed blankly
out from a face now bearded and emaciated, would eventually regain
their former light of intelligence. He did not believe that this
helpless creature--who had been, when he first saw him in Puerto Frio,
despite blood-discolored face and limp unconsciousness, so perfect a
figure of a man--had passed into permanent darkness. The light would
again dawn, possibly at first in fitful waverings and flashes through
the fog. If only there could be some familiar scene or thing to
suggest the past! But, unfortunately, all that lay across the world.
So, they decided to take him to Paris, and ensconce him in Captain
Harris' modest lodgings in the _Rue St. Jacques_, and, inasmuch as the
captain's lodgings were shared by no one, and his landlady was a
kindly soul, Dr. Cornish also resolved to go there. For a few weeks,
the sailor was to be home from the sea, and meant to spend his holiday
in the capital. As for the physician, he was just now unattached. He
had hoped to be in charge of a government's work of health and
sanitation. Instead, he was idle, and could afford to remain and study
an unusual condition. He certainly could not abandon this anonymous
creature whom fate had thrust upon his keeping. Now, six weeks after
his accident, Saxon sat alone in the modest apartment of the lodgings
in the _Rue St. Jacques_. Since his arrival in Paris, the walls of
that room and the court in the center of the house had been the
boundaries of his world. He had not seen beyond them. He had been
physically weak and languid, mentally void. They had attempted to
persuade him to move about, but his apathy had been insuperable.
Sometimes, he wandered about the court like a small child. He had no
speech. Often, he fingered a rusty key as a baby fingers a rattle. On
the day that Steele and Duska had gone to the academy of M.
Hautecoeur, Dr. Cornish and Paul Harris had left the lodgings for a
time, and Saxon sat as usual at a window, looking absently out on the
court.

In its center stood a stone _jardiniere_, now empty. About it was the
flagged area, also empty. In front was the street-door--closed. Saxon
looked out with the opaque stare of pupils that admit no images to the
brain. They were as empty as the stone jar. Possibly, the sun,
borrowing som