But even Mrs. Hutchinson was compelled to retreat from this logical fortress when Karl asked me to tell his old friends all that had taken place at Oxford. Maggie listened with a ferverish intentness that did not escape me. Her shining eyes and parted lips betrayed her. She impressed me as searching for some key which should open the door of complete understanding, but the search was not rewarded--that much I knew when we bade each other “good-night” at a late hour. Karl and I escorted the ladies to the corridor in which their room was situated, the hotel being so full that we were scattered over three floors. Mrs. Hutchinson, glad to escape from the brain-tangling problems which we could not shirk in discussing recent events, was chatting with Karl about his father and mother, and I seized the opportunity to put a question to pretty Miss Margaret as she walked by my side. “In your subsequent visions of Karl,” I said, “did you ever attempt to speak to him?” “No. It was either impossible or I did not experience the desire.” She answered so readily that I was encouraged to go a step further. “Did you, of your own will, strive to resist these appearances, notwithstanding their seemingly pleasurable nature?” She looked at me quickly, and the ghost of a smile dimpled her cheeks. “Yes,” she said simply. “I do not mind confessing that they frightened me terribly, afterwards, when I thought about them, but not at the time.” “Were you thinking of Karl when you met Bocci this afternoon?” “How could we help it, when his predictions were verified the instant we stepped off the steamer’s gangway? I must have spoken of him to my mother just before he saw us standing in the Customs shed. Oh, how strange it all is! What will be the outcome?” A man passed us and glared at me as though he would like to wring my neck. I imagine he thought I was worrying Maggie. She had changed her travelling costume for a dinner-blouse and a light silk skirt. I noticed that her bosom heaved tumultuously and a soft light leaped into her eyes. But I pursued the topic no further, and we parted a few seconds later. Next morning, Karl and I were waiting in the vestibule to take the ladies in to breakfast, when the inquiry clerk slipped from behind his desk and approached me with a business-like air. “Are you Mr. Grier, sir?” he asked. “No, this is Mr. Grier.” Karl looked at the little man, who seemed half prepared to tremble before another Olympian glance. But Karl’s face would reassure a timid child when, as Hooper put it, he was “disconnected.” “I beg your pardon,” said the clerk, “but I thought you would like to know that there was a man here last night inquiring for you.” “A man?” said Karl, blankly. The hotel official, even if he had curt manners with unprotected travellers, was smart enough to discriminate between real mahogany and veneer.