"I don't know that I can, Flemming."

"Try, then."

Lynde reflected a few seconds, with his eyes fixed on the remote
mountain lines imperceptibly melting into the twilight. "Do you remember
our walk home from the theatre, one night, two or three days before you
sailed from New York?"

"Perfectly," replied Flemming.

"Do you recollect my telling you of a queer thing that happened to me up
in the New Hampshire hills?"

"Your encounter with the little lunatic? Perfectly."

"Don't!" said Lynde, shrinking as if some sharp instrument had pierced
him. "She is here!"

"Here!" exclaimed Flemming, half rising from the chair, and glancing
towards a draped door which connected the suite of apartments.

"Not in these rooms," said Lynde, with a short laugh, "but in Geneva--in
this hotel."

"You do not mean it."

"When I say it is she, I'm not sure of it."

"Of course it isn't."