CULWIN paused again, and again Frenham sat motionless, the dusky contour of his young head reflected in the mirror at his back.

“And what became of Noyes afterward¹?” I finally asked, still disquieted² by a sense of incompleteness, by the need of some connecting thread between the parallel lines of the tale.

Culwin twitched³ his shoulders. “Oh, nothing became of him — because he became nothing. There could be no question of ‘becoming’ about it. He vegetated⁴ in an office, I believe, and finally got a clerkship in a consulate⁵, and married drearily⁶ in China. I saw him once in Hong Kong, years afterward. He was fat and hadn’t shaved. I was told he drank. He didn’t recognize me.”

“And the eyes?” I asked, after another pause which Frenham’s continued silence made oppressive.

Culwin, stroking his chin, blinked at me meditatively⁷ through the shadows. “I never saw them after my last talk with Gilbert. Put two and two together if you can. For my part, I haven’t found the link.”

He rose stiffly, his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the table on which reviving drinks had been set out.

“You must be parched⁸ after this dry tale. Here, help yourself, my dear fellow. Here, Phil — ” He turned back to the hearth⁹.

Frenham still sat in his low chair, making no response to his host’s hospitable¹⁰ summons. But as Culwin advanced toward him, their eyes met in a long look; after which, to my intense surprise, the young man, turning suddenly in his seat, flung his arms across the table, and dropped his face upon them.

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