"By no means. I am going to Berkeley myself. We can ride together.
My name is Jerome. Albert Jerome."

"Thanks. Mine is Avec. Rhamda Avec. I am much obliged. Your
company may be instructive."

He did not say more, but watched with unrestrained interest their
manoeuvre into the slip. A moment later they were marching with
the others down the gangways to the trains waiting. Just as they
were seated and the electric train was pulling out of the pier the
sun breaking through the mist blazed with splendid light through
the cloud rifts. The stranger was next to the window where he
could look out over the water and beyond at the citied shoreline,
whose sea of housetops extended and rose to the peaks of the first
foothills. The sun was just coming over the mountains.

The detective watched. There was sincerity in the man's actions.
It was not acting. When the light first broke he turned his eyes
full into the radiance. It was the act of a child and, so it
struck the officer, of the same trust and simplicity--and likewise
the same effect. He drew away quickly: for the moment blinded.

"Ah!" he said. "It is so. This is the sun. Your sun is wonderful!"

"Indeed it is," returned the other. "But rather common. We see it
every day. It's the whole works, but we get used to it. For myself
I cannot see anything strange in the 'sun's still shining.' You
have been blind, Mr. Avec? Pardon the question. But I must
naturally infer. You say you have never seen the sun. I suppose--"