of work before me. I had begun sometime before to take down my
temperature. I was careful of everything now, as much as I could
be under the depression. So far I had discerned nothing that could
be classed as pathological.

There is something subtle about the Nervina. She is much like the
Rhamda. Perhaps they are the same. I hear no sound, I have no
notion of a door or entrance. Watson had said of the Rhamda,
"Sometimes you see him, sometimes you don't." It is so with the
Nervina. I remember only my working at the data and the sudden
movement of a hand upon my desk--a girl's hand. It was
bewildering. I looked up.

I had not seen her since that night. It was now eight months--did
I not know, I would have recorded them as years. Her expression
was a bit more sad--and beautiful. The same wonderful glow of her
eyes, night-black and tender; the softness that comes from
passion, and love, and virtue. The same wistful droop of the
perfect mouth. What a wondrous mass of hair she had! I dropped my
pen. She took my hand. I could sense the thrill of contact; cool
and magnetic.

"Harry!"

She said no more; I did not answer; I was too taken by surprise
and wonder. I could feel her concern as I would a mother's. What
was her interest in myself? The contact of her hand sent a strange
pulse through my vitals; she was so beautiful. Could it be? Watson
said he loved her. Could I blame him?