He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His favourite trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street. “Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda Avec!” I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda. Neither did he. “The Rhamda? You don't know him.” Hobart was puzzled. “No,” he said; “I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a fat man.” I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had an affinity for the fog mist. To come out of “Faust” and to run into the Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both stood still and waited. “I wonder--” said Hobart. “I was just thinking about that fellow tonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot--some coffee.” But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was unusual. During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr. Holcomb; and for the last few hours the tale had clung with reiterating persistence. Perhaps it was the weirdness and the tremulous intoxication of the music. I was one of the vast majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it was, after all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we are receptive; at that moment I could have believed it. We entered the cafe and chose a table slightly to the rear. It was a contrast to the cold outside; the lights so bright, the glasses clinking, laughter and music. A few young people were dancing. I sat down; in a moment the lightness and jollity had stirred my blood. Hobart took a chair opposite. The place was full of beauty. In the back of my mind blurred the image of Rhamda. I had never seen him; but I had read the description. I wondered absently at the persistence. I have said that I do not believe in fate. I repeat it. Man should control his own destiny. A great man does. Perhaps that is it. I am not great. Certainly it was circumstance. In the back part of the room at one of the tables was a young man sitting alone. Something caught my attention. Perhaps it was his listlessness or the dreamy unconcern with which he watched the dancers; or it may have been the utter forlornness of his expression. I noted his unusual pallor and his cast of dissipation, also the continual working of his long, lean fingers. There are certain set fixtures in the night life of any city. But this was not one. He was not an habitue. There was a certain greatness to his loneliness and his isolation. I wondered. Just then he looked up. By a mere coincidence our eyes met. He smiled, a weak smile and a forlorn one, and it seemed to me rather pitiful. Then as suddenly his glance wandered to the door behind me. Perhaps there was something in my expression that caught Hobart's attention. He turned about. “Say, Harry, who is that fellow? I know that face, I'm certain.” “Come to think I have seen him myself. I wonder--”