He stopped because of the other's smile; somehow it seemed a very
superior one, as if predicting a wealth of wisdom.

"My dear Mr. Jerome," he spoke, "I have never been blind in my
life. I say it is wonderful! It is glorious and past describing.
So is it all, your water, your boats, your ocean. But I see there
is one thing even stranger still. It is yourselves. With all your
greatness you are only part of your surroundings. Do you know what
is your sun?"

"Search me," returned the officer. "I'm no astronomer. I
understand they don't know themselves. Fire, I suppose, and a hell
of a hot one! But there is one thing that I can tell."

"And this--"

"Is the truth."

If he meant it for insinuation it was ineffective. The other
smiled kindly. In the fine effect of the delicate features, and
most of all in the eyes was sincerity. In that face was the mark
of genius--he felt it--and of a potent superior intelligence. Most
of all did he note the beauty and the soft, silky superlustre of
the eyes.

We have the whole thing from Jerome, at least this part of it; and
our interest being retrospect is multiplied far above that of the
detective. The stranger had a certain call of character and of
appearance, not to say magnetism. The officer felt himself almost
believing and yet restraining himself into caution of unbelief. It