persuade him to move about, but his apathy had been insuperable. Sometimes, he wandered about the court like a small child. He had no speech. Often, he fingered a rusty key as a baby fingers a rattle. On the day that Steele and Duska had gone to the academy of M. Hautecoeur, Dr. Cornish and Paul Harris had left the lodgings for a time, and Saxon sat as usual at a window, looking absently out on the court. In its center stood a stone _jardiniere_, now empty. About it was the flagged area, also empty. In front was the street-door--closed. Saxon looked out with the opaque stare of pupils that admit no images to the brain. They were as empty as the stone jar. Possibly, the sun, borrowing some of the warmth of the spent summer, made a vague appeal to animal instinct; possibly, the first ray of mental dawn was breaking. At all events, Saxon rose heavily, and made his way into the area. At last, he wandered to the street-door. It happened to be closed, but the _concierge_ stood near. "_Cordon?_" inquired the porter, with a smile. It is the universal word with which lodgers in such abodes summon the guardian of the gate to let them in or out. Saxon looked up, and across the hitherto unbroken vacancy of his pupils flickered a disturbed, puzzled tremor of mental groping. He opened his thin lips, closed them again, then smiled, and said with perfect distinctness: "_Cordon, s'il vous plait._" The _concierge_ knew only that monsieur was an invalid. In his next question was nothing more than simple Gallic courtesy. "_Est-ce que monsieur va mieux aujour d'hui?_" Once more, Saxon's lips hesitated, then mechanically moved. "_Oui, merci_," he responded. The man who found himself standing aimlessly on the sidewalk of the _Rue St. Jacques_, was a man clothed in an old and ill-fitting suit of Captain Harris' clothes. He was long-haired, hollow-cheeked and bearded like a pirate. At last, he hesitatingly turned and wandered away at random. About him lay Paris and the world, but Paris and the world were to him things without names or meaning. His unguided steps carried him to the banks of the Seine, and finally he stood on the island, gazing without comprehension at the square towers of _Notre Dame_, his brows strangely puckered as his eyes picked out the carvings of the "Last Judgment" and the _Galerie des Rois_. He shook his head dully, and, turning once more, went on without purpose until at the end of much wandering he again halted. This time, he had before him the _Pantheon's_ entrance, and confronting him on its pedestal sat a human figure in bronze. It was Rodin's unspeakably melancholy conception, "_le Penseur_," and it might have stood for Saxon's self as it half-crouched with limbs tense and brows drawn in, in the agony of brooding thought-travail.