In which Julien De Medici meets a train and grapples with a skyrocket—The triumphant phantoms again—In which Dr. Lytton relates an incredible story concerning dawn in Rollo, Maine—“Come at once—she is dying.” The train was pulling in. Its headlight swinging down the track filled De Medici with violent emotion. In a few minutes Dr. Lytton would alight, leading at his side the long sought and mysterious Floria. With a roar and hiss of steam, the train loomed at his side and came to a stop. The bustle of alighting passengers ensued. Sleepy-eyed travelers entering New York at midnight, loaded down with bags and packages, began to emerge from the cars. De Medici’s eyes raced from exit to exit. Impatience had deprived him of thought. He stood shivering in the smoke-filled shed. Figures hurried by. Then someone called his name. Turning excitedly, De Medici found himself face to face with his friend Dr. Lytton. And at Dr. Lytton’s side stood Florence Ballau. De Medici’s thought remained in suspension. He noticed that the doctor was holding her arm, that she was pale and almost tottering, and that her eyes were half closed. “A cab,” Dr. Lytton ordered tersely. “Hurry! She’s in a bad state.” Still De Medici stood motionless. The shock that the sight of Florence had given him had vanished almost immediately. There was another confusion now, a familiar and vaporous twisting in his head, as if thoughts were endeavoring to turn themselves inside out. “Hurry, Julien. A cab.” Dazedly, De Medici turned and walked out of the station toward the cab stand. He waited until the two arrivals caught up. His eyes stared miserably at the ground. Inside the machine he forced a question from his lips. “Where did you find her, Hugo?” Dr. Lytton shook his head. A triumphant gleam was in his eyes. “All in due time,” he replied. “Wait till we get home.” De Medici was relieved for the silence. He sat with his head sunk, inwardly conscious of the inanimate Florence beside him. She had spoken no word of greeting or explanation. His thought traced itself sardonically over a single sentence. “So this is Floria!” A desire to laugh came to him. The shock which her unexpected appearance beside Dr. Lytton had given him had been short-lived. At once, on top of his astonishment, had bloomed a new fear. At the sight of her and the triumphant-eyed scientist De Medici became aware in an instant that his carefully pieced-together theory of the thing lay in shreds. Unable to keep his thought calm and invent something plausible to explain the insane shiftings of the past few weeks, the terror from which he had suffered during the early days of the Ballau mystery reinstated itself. He sat now with his carefully molded smile, the smile that had aggravated the suspicions of Norton.