“I also am worn out,” he said. “I shall be even more weary to-morrow, but I must endure my weariness without complaint. Therefore, I wonder what you will say when you know the truth.” “That light--on Nora--did you see it?” “Yes. Oh, yes.” “Was she conscious of it?” “Not of the light. That is resistance. You saw Maggie, too?” “Of course. You made me see her.” “That is better. You are on the right track. Soon you will understand the magnitude of the task I am called on to accomplish during the next few weeks--until I crack up, in fact. Here is your hotel. _À demain!_ I shall dine with you, and then you can tell me what Nora says. I know what she thinks, but women are secretive.” The drive through the cool night air restored my faculties, but I was physically exhausted. The long journey, the shock of seeing Karl’s father in a paroxysm of agonized fear, the change in Karl himself, and the quite extraordinary æsthetic manifestations I had received--these latter probably taking a good deal more out of me than I allowed for--were sufficient to weary any man. Nevertheless, my brain was active enough in a commonplace way, and the thought was borne in on me that I needed assistance if the fiend which threatened the very lives of several estimable persons were to be exorcised successfully. To appeal to some distinguished alienist was out of the question. He would begin by assuming that Karl and Maggie and Nora, not to mention Grier _père_ and my eminent self, were mad. In my dilemma I remembered Hooper. Had he accepted that appointment at the Paris Embassy? There was no harm in trying. I wrote a telegram, which I left with the night porter for despatch early in the morning, and it was a real pleasure to read the typewritten slip brought to my bedroom about 9 A.M.:-- “Charing Cross seven this evening. Get Karl to ring off until I arrive--HOOPER.” His was a cheerful soul. The careless badinage of his message was agreeable, and I ate my breakfast in good spirits. It was a fine morning, with a summer sun beaming from a cloudless sky. It is taking a great risk to state this in cold print, because readers have good memories, and many a dubious eye will be cast on a narrative which records unbroken sunshine in London. Nevertheless, it is true, and, as shall be seen, the weather was an essential factor in the proceedings of that memorable time. After prolonged absence from Britain, my hats, ties, gloves, and boots required to be Anglicized. Piccadilly and the Burlington absorbed the morning comfortably; half-past two o’clock found me loitering, like any young sprig awaiting his best girl, in front of the flower-beds at Stanhope Gate.