* * * * * There was another door directly across the hall. It stood open, disclosing a bedroom, into the windows of which the setting sun was streaming. A man came to its doorway. Turber's Indian assistant, Alan afterward told me; evidently he was here on guard. He did not speak; he saw Dr. Turber, and moved back into the room. But for that instant he was visible I think I have never had a more startling impression. A man, clad in trousers and white shirt; of huge stature, well over six feet. Straight black hair, parted in the middle; a red-brown face, flat-nosed. But more than that. I saw something about him which was uncanny. An indescribable impression of something incredibly sinister. Something weird. He had a magazine in his hand. If it had been a tomahawk dripping blood, if his face with its broken nose had been streaked with ocher, if his body had been bare of those civilized garments--it would have seemed far more normal. He grunted as he met Dr. Turber's glance and turned away. Turber repeated: "I think I would not speak to her--but you may if you like." He knocked on the girl's door. He then turned the lock and pushed the door inward. We crowded at the threshold. It was a small, comfortably furnished bedroom. Windowless. A wicker table, with an electrolier giving a soft glow of yellow light. The girl stood like a startled fawn in the center of the room. It was the girl we had seen on the television! A creature, here in life, of fairy-like delicacy. Almost unreal. She was not over five feet tall; slight and delicate of mold; a girlhood upon the brink of maturity. A fairy creature, like a vision of girlhood in a child's fairy dream. White-limbed; wearing a pale, sky-blue robe--a drapery rather than a dress. Flowing hair, pale as spun gold. A face, oval and small, exquisite, delicate as a cameo. Eyes, sky-blue-- They stared at us, those sky-blue eyes. Startled. But they were not vacant eyes, nor confused; not the eyes of a person mentally deranged. They swung toward Dr. Turber; and as momentarily he turned away they came back to Alan. And in them I read--and Alan read--a mute, furtive look of appeal! CHAPTER IV THE SECRET OF THE COURTYARD The gray walls of the Turber Sanatorium were painted red by the falling sun when we departed in our waiting taxi. The episode with the girl had taken only a moment. I had spoken to her; I said fatuously: "Don't you know us?" She did not seem to try to answer. Her gaze swung from Alan to me. She took a step backward; as though the sound of my voice were frightening; but I could have sworn she was watching Turber; it was Turber of whom she was afraid, not us. "Come," he said. "That's enough." We had not crossed the threshold. He closed the door upon the girl; her gaze seemed still searching Alan's face as it closed.