It was a little drama enacted almost in silence. Hobart and I
exchanged glances. The mere glimpse of the Rhamda had brought us
both back to the Blind Spot. Was there any connection? Who was the
young man with the life sapped out? I had a recollection of a face
strangely familiar. Hobart interrupted my thoughts.

"I'd give just about one leg for the gist of that conversation.
That was the Rhamda; but who is the other ghost?"

"Do you think it has to do with the Blind Spot?"

"I don't think," averred Hobart. "I know. Wonder what's the time."
He glanced at his watch. "Eleven thirty."

Just here the young man at the table raised up his head. The
cigarette was still between his fingers; he puffed lamely for a
minute, taking a dull note of his surroundings. In the well of
gaiety and laughter coming from all parts of the room his actions
were out of place. He seemed dazed; unable to pull himself
together. Suddenly he looked at us. He started.

"He certainly knows us," I said. "I wonder--by George, he's coming
over."

Even his step was feeble. There was exertion about every move of
his body, the wanness and effort of vanished vitality; he balanced
himself carefully. Slowly, slowly, line by line his features
became familiar, the underlines of another, the ghost of one
departed. At first I could not place him. He held himself up for
breath. Who was he? Then it suddenly came to me--back to the old