dank, close air was unwashed by daylight. A stray ray of sunshine
filtering through the broken shutter slanted across the room and
sought vainly to dispel the shadow. He thought of Dr. Holcomb and
the old lady. "Now there are two." Was it a double tragedy? First
of all he must investigate.

The place was of eleven rooms, six downstairs and five on the
upper story. With the exception of one broken chair there was no
furniture upstairs; four of the rooms on the lower floor were
partly furnished, two not at all. A rear room had evidently been
to the old lady the whole of her habitation, serving as a kitchen,
bedroom, and living-room combined. Except in this room there were
no carpets what-ever. His steps sounded hollow and ghostly; the
boards creaked and each time he opened a door he was oppressed by
the same gloom of dankness and stagnation. There was no trace of
Dr. Holcomb.

He remembered the bell and sought vainly on both floors for
anything that would give him a clue to the sound. There was
nothing. The only thing he heard was the echoing of his own
creaking footsteps and the unceasing tune that dinned in his
spirit, "Now there are two."

At last he came to the door and looked out into the street. The
sun was shining and the life and pulse was rising from the city.
It was daylight; plain, healthy day. It was good to look at. On
the threshold of the door he felt himself standing on the border
of two worlds. What had become of the doctor and who was the old
lady; and lastly and just as important, who was the Rhamda and his
beautiful companion?