“I’ll be the judge,” said the Tracer, smiling.

“Very well, sir.  Then I’ll begin by telling you that I’ve seen a ghost.”

“There are such things,” observed Keen quietly.

“Oh, I don’t mean one of those fabled sheeted creatures that float about at night; I mean a phantom—­a real phantom—­in the sunlight—­standing before my very eyes in broad day! . . .  Now do you feel inclined to go on with my case, Mr. Keen?”

“Certainly,” replied the Tracer gravely.  “Please continue, Captain Harren.”

“All right, then.  Here’s the beginning of it:  Three years ago, here in New York, drifting along Fifth Avenue with the crowd, I looked up to encounter the most wonderful pair of eyes that I ever beheld—­that any living man ever beheld!  The most—­wonderfully—­beautiful—­”

He sat so long immersed in retrospection that the Tracer said:  “I am listening, Captain,” and the Captain woke up with a start.

“What was I saying?  How far had I proceeded?”

“Only to the eyes.”

“Oh, I see!  The eyes were dark, sir, dark and lovely beyond any power of description.  The hair was also dark—­very soft and thick and—­er—­wavy and dark.  The face was extremely youthful, and ornamental to the uttermost verges of a beauty so exquisite that, were I to attempt to formulate for you its individual attractions, I should, I fear, transgress the strictly rigid bounds of that reticence which becomes a gentleman in complete possession of his senses.”

“Exactly,” mused the Tracer.

“Also,” continued Captain Harren, with growing animation, “to attempt to describe her figure would be utterly useless, because I am a practical man and not a poet, nor do I read poetry or indulge in futile novels or romances of any description.  Therefore I can only add that it was a figure, a poise, absolutely faultless, youthful, beautiful, erect, wholesome, gracious, graceful, charmingly buoyant and—­well, I cannot describe her figure, and I shall not try.”

“Exactly; don’t try.”

“No,” said Harren mournfully, “it is useless”; and he relapsed into enchanted retrospection.

“Who was she?” asked Mr. Keen softly.

“I don’t know.”

“You never again saw her?”

“Mr. Keen, I—­I am not ill-bred, but I simply could not help following her.  She was so b-b-beautiful that it hurt; and I only wanted to look at her; I didn’t mind being hurt.  So I walked on and on, and sometimes I’d pass her and sometimes I’d let her pass me, and when she wasn’t looking I’d look—­not offensively, but just because I couldn’t help it.  And all the time my senses were humming like a top and my heart kept jumping to get into my throat, and I hadn’t a notion where I was going or what time it was or what day of the week.  She didn’t see me; she didn’t dream that I was looking at her; she didn’t know me from any of the thousand silk-hatted, frock-coated men