We came up
on the sidewalk. Again he peered into the shadow.
"Confound that cab," he was saying, "now we have gone and missed
him."
He took off his hat and then put it back on his head. His
favourite trick when bewildered. I looked up and down the street.
"Didn't you see him? Harry! Didn't you see him? It was Rhamda
Avec!"
I had seen no one; that is to notice; I did not know the Rhamda.
Neither did he.
"The Rhamda? You don't know him."
Hobart was puzzled.
"No," he said; "I do not; but it was he, just as sure as I am a
fat man."
I whistled. I recalled the tale that was now a legend. The man had
an affinity for the fog mist. To come out of "Faust" and to run
into the Rhamda! What was the connection? For a moment we both
stood still and waited.
"I wonder--" said Hobart. "I was just thinking about that fellow
tonight. Strange! Well, let's get something hot--some coffee."
But it had given us something for discussion. Certainly it was
unusual. During the past few days I had been thinking of Dr.
Holcomb; and for the last few hours the tale had clung with
reiterating persistence. Perhaps it was the weirdness and the
tremulous intoxication of the music. I was one of the vast
majority who disbelieved it. Was it possible that it was, after
all, other than the film of fancy? There are times when we are
receptive; at that moment I could have believed it.
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