"It's nothing," said Harren. "I've been groping for three years—but it's no use. That's lunatics' work." He wheeled squarely on his heels, looking straight at the Tracer. "Do you think I've had a touch of the sun?"
"No," said Mr. Keen, drawing a chair to the table. "Saner men than you or I have spent a lifetime over this so-called Seal of Solomon." He laid his finger on the two symbols—
Then, looking across the table at Harren: "What," he asked, "has the Seal of Solomon to do with your case?"
"She—" muttered Harren, and fell silent.
The Tracer waited; Harren said nothing.
"Where is the photograph?"
Harren unlocked a drawer in the table, hesitated, looked strangely at the Tracer.
"Mr. Keen," he said, "there is nothing on earth I hold more sacred than this. There is only one thing in the world that could justify me in showing it to a living soul—my—my desire to find—her—"
"No," said Keen coolly, "that is not enough to justify you—the mere desire to find the living original of this apparition. Nothing could justify your showing it unless you love her."