turned away with a futile shake of his head to resume his
wanderings.

Finally, in a narrow cross street, he halted once more, and looked
about him with a consciousness of vast weariness. He had traversed the
length of many blocks in his aimlessness, crossing and recrossing his
own course, and he was still feeble from long days of illness and
inertia.

Suddenly, he raised his head, and his lips, which had been half-parted
in the manner of lips not obeying a positive brain, closed in a firm
line that seemed to make his chin and jaw take on a stronger contour.
He drew his brows together as he stood studying the door before him,
and his pupils were deeply vague and perplexed. But it was a different
perplexity. The vacuity was gone.

Automatically, one thin hand went into the trousers-pocket, and came
out clutching a rusty key. For another moment, he stood regarding the
thing, turning it over in his fingers. Then, he laughed, and drew back
his sagging shoulders. With the gesture, he threw away all imbecility,
and followed the inexorable call of some impulse which he could not
yet fully understand, but which was neither vague nor haphazard.

At that moment, Dr. Cornish, chancing to glance up from his course a
block away, stopped dumfounded at the sight of his patient. When he
had gathered his senses, and looked again, the patient had
disappeared.

Saxon walked a few steps further, turned into an open street-door,
passed the _concierge_ without a word, and toilsomely, but with a
purposeful tread, mounted the narrow, ill-lighted stairs. At the
turning where strangers usually stumbled, he lifted his foot clear
for the longer stride, yet he had not glanced down.

For just a moment, he paused for breath in the hall, upon which opened
several doors identical in appearance. Without hesitation, he fitted
the ancient key into an equally ancient lock, opened the door, and
entered.

At the click of the thrown tumbler of the lock, some of the occupants
of the place glanced up. They saw the door swing wide, and frame
between its jambs a tall, thin man, who stood unsteadily supporting
himself against the case. The black-bearded face was flushed with a
burning fever, but the eyes that looked out from under the heavy brows
were wide awake and intelligent.

"But Marston will one day return to us," Monsieur Hautecoeur was
declaring to Steele and the girl, who, with backs to the door, were
studying a picture on the wall. "He will re