As soon as possible I crossed the street to the Fentons’.  Someone had seen me in town.  Charlotte was waiting.  She was the same beautiful girl I had known so long; the blue eyes, the blonde, wavy mass of hair, the laughing mouth and the gladness.  But she was not glad now.  It was almost a repetition of what had happened at home, only here a bit more personal.  She clung to me almost in terror.  I didn’t realise I had gone down so much.  I knew my weariness; but I hadn’t thought my appearance so dejected.  I remembered Watson.  He had been wan, pale, forlorn.  After what brief explanation I could give, I proposed a stroll in the moonlight.

It was a full moon; a wonderful night; we walked down the avenue under the elm trees.  Charlotte was beautiful, and worried; she clung to my arm with the eagerness of possession.  I could not but compare her with Nervina.  There was a contrast; Charlotte was fresh, tender, affectionate, the girl of my boyhood.  I had known her all my life; there was no doubt of our love.

Who was the other?  She was something higher, out of mystery, out of life—­almost—­out of the moonbeams.  I stopped and looked up.  The great full orb was shining.  I didn’t know that I spoke.

“Harry,” asked Charlotte, “who is the Nervina?”

Had I spoken?

“What do you know about the Nervina?” I asked.

“She has been to see me.  She told me.  She said you would be here tonight.  I was waiting.  She is very beautiful.  I never saw anyone like her.  She is wonderful!”

“What did she say?”

“She!  Oh, Harry.  Tell me.  I have waited.  Something has happened.  Tell me.  You have told me nothing.  You are not like the old Harry.”

“Tell me about the Nervina.  What did she say?  Charlotte, tell me everything.  Am I so much different from the old Harry?”

She clutched at my arm fearfully; she looked into my eyes.

“Oh,” she said, “how can you say it?  You haven’t laughed once.  You are melancholy; you are pale, drawn, haggard.  You keep muttering.  You are not the old Harry.  Is it this Nervina?  At first I thought she loved you; but she does not.  She wanted to know all about you, and about our love.  She was so interested.  What is this danger?”

I didn’t answer.

“You must tell me.  This ring?  She said that you must give it to me.  What is it?” she insisted.

“Did she ask that?  She told you to take the ring?  My dear,” I asked, “if it were the ring and it were so sinister would I be a man to give it to my loved one?”

“It would not hurt me.”

But I would not.  Something warned me.  It was a ruse to get it out of my possession.  The whole thing was haunting, weird, ghostly.  Always I could hear Watson.  I still had a small quota of courage and will-power.  I clung steadfastly to my purpose.

It was a sad three hours.  Poor Charlotte!  I shall never forget it.  It is the hardest task on earth to deny one’s loved one.