phenomena of hypnotism.  The thought of accepting the help of one who was probably, like most of her kind, a deceiver of herself and therefore, and thereby, of others, was an affront to the dignity of his distress, a desecration of his love’s sanctity, a frivolous invasion of love’s holiest ground.  But, on the other hand, he was stimulated to catch at the veriest shadows of possibility by the certainty that he was at last within the same city with her he loved, and he knew that hypnotic subjects are sometimes able to determine the abode of persons whom no one else can find.  To-morrow it might be too late.  Even before to-day’s sun had set Beatrice might be once more taken from him, snatched away to the ends of the earth by her father’s ever-changing caprice.  To lose a moment now might be to lose all.

He was tempted to yield, to resign his will into Unorna’s hands, and his sight to her leading, to let her bid him sleep and see the truth.  But then, with a sudden reaction of his individuality, he realized that he had another course, surer, simpler, more dignified.  Beatrice was in Prague.  It was little probable that she was permanently established in the city, and in all likelihood she and her father were lodged in one of the two or three great hotels.  To be driven from the one to the other of these would be but an affair of minutes.  Failing information from this source, there remained the registers of the Austrian police, whose vigilance takes note of every stranger’s name and dwelling-place.

“I thank you,” he said.  “If all my inquiries fail, and if you will let me visit you once more to-day, I will then ask your help.”

“You are right,” Unorna answered.

CHAPTER III

He had been deceived in supposing that he must inevitably find the names of those he sought upon the ordinary registers which chronicle the arrival and departure of travellers.  He lost no time, he spared no effort, driving from place to place as fast as two sturdy Hungarian horses could take him, hurrying from one office to another, and again and again searching endless pages and columns which seemed full of all the names of earth, but in which he never found the one of all others which he longed to read.  The gloom in the narrow streets was already deepening, though it was scarcely two hours after mid-day, and the heavy air had begun to thicken with a cold gray haze, even in the broad, straight Przikopy, the wide thoroughfare which has taken the place and name of the moat before the ancient fortifications, so that distant objects and figures lost the distinctness of their outlines.  Winter in Prague is but one long, melancholy dream, broken sometimes at noon by an hour of sunshine, by an intermittent visitation of reality, by the shock and glare of a little broad daylight.  The morning is not morning, the evening is not evening; as in the land of the Lotus, it is ever afternoon, gray, soft, misty, sad, save when