So saying, he changed the subject, and for upward of half an hour we wandered in the realm of art, discussing the methods of painters past and present. Upon this subject, as upon every other, I was amazed at the extent and depth of his learning. His taste, I discovered, was cosmopolitan, but if he had any preference it was for the early Tuscan school. We were still debating this point when a dark figure emerged from the companion and came along the deck toward us. Seeing that it was the Fräulein Valerie, I rose from my chair. "How hot the night is, Mr. Forrester!" she said, as she came up to us. "There is thunder in the air, I am sure, and if I am not mistaken we shall have a storm before morning." "I think it more than likely," I answered. "It is extremely oppressive below." "It is almost unbearable," she answered, as she took the seat I offered her. "Notwithstanding that fact, I believe I must have fallen asleep in my cabin, for I can not remember what I have been doing since dinner." Recalling the conversation I had overheard, and which had concluded with the instruction, "In an hour thou wilt wake and wilt remember naught of what thou hast revealed to me," I glanced at Pharos; but his face told me nothing. "I fear you are not quite yourself, my dear," said the latter in a kindly tone, as he leaned toward her and placed his skinny hand upon her arm. "As you say, it must be the thundery evening. Our friend Forrester here is complaining of a headache. Though he will not let me experiment upon him, I think I shall have to see what I can do for you. I will consult my medicine chest at once." With this he rose from his seat and, bidding us farewell, went below. Presently the Fräulein rose and side by side we walked aft to the taffrail. Though I did my best to rouse her from the lethargy into which she had fallen, I was unsuccessful. She stood with her slender hands clasping the rail before her and her great, dark eyes staring out across the waste of water. Never had she looked more beautiful and certainly never more sad. Her unhappiness touched me to the heart, and, under the influence of my emotion, I approached a little nearer to her. "You are unhappy," I said. "Is there no way in which I can help you?" "Not one," she answered bitterly, still gazing steadfastly out to sea. "I am beyond the reach of help. Can you realise what it means, Mr. Forrester, to be beyond the reach of help?" The greatest tragedienne the world has seen could not have invested those terrible words with greater or more awful meaning. "No, no," I said; "I can not believe that. You are overwrought to-night. You are not yourself. You say things you do not mean." This time she turned on me almost fiercely. "Mr. Forrester," she said, "you try to console me; but, as I am beyond the reach of help, so I am also beyond the reach of comfort. If you could have but the slightest conception of what my life is, you would not wonder that I am so wretched."