The entire rÉgime of the house on Gramercy Square had been changed. Instead of rising at eleven o’clock Gloria now left the house shortly after eight, to be at the motion picture studios in New Jersey at nine, so that Ruth seldom saw her before dinner time. The balancing of Gloria’s bank book disclosed that she had been living at a rate far in excess of her income—news that did not seem to trouble Gloria at all.

“I’ll make it all up again in a few weeks now that I’m working,” she said. “If you’ll only write out a book full of checks for my poor, dear creditors, I’ll sign them and then you can mail them out and everything will be lovely—for a few months at least.”

“Yes, but don’t you think you ought to regulate your expenditures according to your assured income, Gloria? You know you aren’t always working,” said Ruth.

“I can’t be troubled with that now. Wait until I get tangled up again—something always happens, and nothing could be worse than the pictures; regular hours like a shopgirl, and no audience.”

Ruth returned from school to find Gloria not yet home and the drawing-room empty, except perhaps for Billie Irwin and Ben Stark, a tall, good-natured youth, who had followed hard upon his letter and who was perpetually asking Ruth to go to theatres with him, where he had “professional courtesy” due to having worked on Broadway the season before. If Ruth refused, as she sometimes did, he cheerfully turned his invitation to Billie Irwin, seemingly as pleased with her society as with that of the younger woman.

It troubled Ruth to think of them all, herself and Miss Irwin and Ben Stark, all living here as if Gloria had unlimited wealth, while Gloria went out every morning to uncongenial work to keep up with the expenses of her too large mÉnage. Only that morning Amy had complained to her of having so many breakfasts to prepare for people who rose whenever they pleased and never remembered to make her any presents. If only George would grow dissatisfied—but he never seemed weary of serving Gloria’s impecunious guests, and if he was still engaged in midnight orgies of enchantment Ruth could not know. She dared not repeat the keyhole experiment. She wished that she had not taken Amy upstairs to sleep; then she would have had a spy below stairs. It was foolish of her to connect Professor Pendragon’s illness with George, but she could not help it. If she could only have some other opinion to go by—or perhaps when she had seen Professor Pendragon again, her illusion would be dispelled. Nels Zord had talked with him over the telephone and Professor Pendragon had made light of his illness and said he would be glad to have Nels and the two girls come and have tea with him the following Thursday. He said he was not going to a hospital and hoped to be quite well when they came. If he was well then Ruth could laugh at her superstitious fears. Thursday was a good day for all of them because there was no lecture Thursday afternoon and they could all leave the Art Students’ League at half-past four and go together to Professor Pendragon’s hotel.

The idea of visiting a man in his hotel, even a man of forty who was ill, and in company with two other people did not seem quite proper to Ruth, but she did not say anything about it, having acquired the habit of taking customs and conventions as she found them. Nevertheless she was quite relieved to find that Professor Pendragon had a suite and that they were ushered into a pleasant room with no hint either of sickness or sleep in it. She even took time to wonder where the prejudice against sleeping rooms as places of ordinary social intercourse first originated.

Professor Pendragon met them, leaning on a crutch, one foot lifted in the attitude of a delightful, old stork.

“It’s really kind of you to come,” he said, after he had made them all comfortable. “You know I have hundreds of acquaintances but very few friends, as I have discovered since I became a victim of the evil eye.”

Ruth could not restrain a start of surprise and he looked at her, his dark eyes wrinkling with mirth.

“So you know about the evil eye?” he questioned.

“No, I don’t. Only I suppose the phrase startled me. What really is the matter?”

“I don’t know and neither do the doctors apparently; that’s why I call it the evil eye. I came home from the show that night and went to sleep like a good Christian with a quiet conscience, but when I woke I found that my right leg was paralysed to the knee. It was the dark of the moon that night. I know because I always think in more or less almanacal terms—that would be when the evil eye would be most effective, you know; and I’m waiting for the full moon to see if I will not be cured as mysteriously as I have been afflicted.”

Nels and Dorothy were listening with puzzled eyes, not quite knowing whether Professor Pendragon was jesting or in earnest.

“You mean all maniacal terms, if you believe such rubbish,” said Nels, “and you need a brain specialist, not a doctor.”

“I think that’s our tea at the door, if you’ll please open it for me, Nels, and I promise not to talk about the evil eye in the presence of such moderns as you and Miss Winslow again.”

“Why don’t you include Ruth in that?” asked Dorothy, as Nels rose to open the door.

“Because Miss Mayfield is not a modern at all; she belongs to the dark middle ages.”

“I’m afraid I’m a bit superstitious,” admitted Ruth, and then hoping to test his sincerity, for he had spoken throughout with a smile, and also to throw, if possible, some light on the uncanny suspicions that troubled her—“Even if you did believe in the evil eye, who would want to harm you?”

“Please do stop,” said Dorothy. “You’re spoiling my tea with your gruesome talk. Where’s the picture that Nels was to point out and advise you about hanging?”

“That is, perhaps, a more wholesome topic, but we were only joking, Miss Mayfield and I.”

“I’ve found the picture already,” exclaimed Nels—“the one with the fat Bacchus—you see I picked it out of all the others—I don’t blame you for buying it; it’s delightful humour, depicting Bacchus as a modern business man, fat and bald, yet clad in a leopard skin with grape vines on his head, and tearing through the forest with a slim, young nymph in his arms—it’s grotesque and fascinating.”

“I thought you’d approve,” said Professor Pendragon. “Now where shall we hang it?”

“It’s all right where it is, unless you have a larger picture to hang there.”

“Now, while you’re unable to walk around, why don’t you sit for a portrait—you’ll never have another time when the sittings will be less irksome. I’d come here and Ruth could come with me as a chaperon, not that I need one, but we might as well be perfectly proper when it’s just as pleasant—you know,” she continued, slightly embarrassed by the smiles on the faces of Nels, Professor Pendragon, and Ruth. “I’m not looking for a commission at all; I just want to paint you because you will make an interesting subject, and because, if I can hang you—I mean get your picture hung in the Academy, I will get real commissions, just because you sat for me. Now I’ve been perfectly frank,” she finished.

Pendragon held out his hand to her, laughing:

“Any of those numerous reasons ought to be enough,” he said, “and if my infirmity lasts long enough, I’ll be glad to have you come and help me kill time.”

“Better start before next dark of the moon,” said Ruth mischievously.

“That gives you only ten more days,” said Pendragon.

“You don’t really believe in those things?”—Dorothy’s blue eyes were wide with distress—“Please tell me the truth; Nels, they’re just teasing, aren’t they?”

“Of course, you know they are; don’t be a silly goose, Dot,” said Nels.

“I know they are, but even if they don’t believe in all they say, they believe in something that I don’t understand, now, don’t you?—confess.”

She turned to Ruth, but it was Pendragon who answered.

“If mind is stronger than matter, and most of us believe that now, then an evil thought has power over matter just as surely as a good thought has power, and the power of the evil thought will continue until it is dispelled by good thought. There if you like is black and white magic. I believe that there are people in the world so crushed by fear and wickedness that every breath of their bodies and every glance of their eyes is a blight on all who come near them, and I believe that there are people who are so fearless and good that where they walk, health and happiness spreads round them as an aura, as sunlight on every life that touches them. Does that satisfy you, Miss Dorothy?”

“Oh yes, that’s very beautiful, I’m sure,” said Dorothy, looking a bit uncomfortable as if she had been listening to a sermon. “When will you let me come for your first sitting?”

“Sunday morning if you like; that won’t interfere with your classes, and it’s a good day for me too, because I am duller than usual on Sunday.”

As they were leaving, Ruth lingered for a moment.

“If you did have an enemy who was trying to harm you, what would you do, Professor Pendragon?” she asked.

“Evil works like good, can only be accomplished with faith; if I had an enemy, I would destroy his faith in his own power,” he answered.

Ruth found the entire family, as Gloria called her household, assembled when she reached the house on Gramercy Park. Terry Riordan was among them.

“Please, Ruth, won’t you go to the theatre with Terry tonight? He has a perfect passion for first nights, but as an honest working woman I need my rest and I’m too tired to go tonight,” said Gloria.

“I’d like to, but—” Ruth glanced in the direction of Ben Stark.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” said that youth. “The fact that you have refused me three times won’t make any difference. I’m accustomed to such treatment from the fair sex.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” said Terry. “I have three tickets and intended taking both Gloria and Ruth if they would go.”

“Please, Miss Ruth, will you let me go with you? I’ll walk a few paces in the rear and be a good little boy,” said Ben. “You really must be kind to me, because I’m going into rehearsals for another trip to the coast with a company that will probably go at least as far as Buffalo. You’ll miss my cheery smile when I am far away.”

“Then we’ll all go together,” agreed Ruth, rather annoyed that Terry should have suggested that Ben go with them. Evidently he considered her too young to be an interesting companion and would be glad to have another man to talk to. It was perhaps for this reason that when they started out she directed most of her smiles and conversation to the erstwhile neglected Ben, making that young man beam with pleasure, while Terry seemed not to observe his neglected state at all.

“What’s wrong, old chap? You are as solemn as an owl and you ought to be as happy as larks are supposed to be, with a real, honest-to-goodness show on Broadway,” said Ben.

“It’s going off next week,” said Terry. “It’s been nothing but a paper house for a week, and they’re going to try it on the road; I don’t seem to have the trick or the recipe for success.”

“I’m so sorry; perhaps it will go well on the road,” said Ruth.

“Don’t feel sorry; it doesn’t matter very much; I’ll write another. A man must do something and if I grow very successful I might be tempted to stop.”

“Yes, one must play some game; that’s what Professor Pendragon says.”

“That’s right, you met Gloria’s husband, didn’t you? What’s he like?”

“Very nice; I’ll tell you later all about it.”

They were entering the theatre now and Ruth wanted to talk to Terry about Professor Pendragon when no one else was listening. Ben Stark was a jarring note that precluded absolute revealment of her hopes and fears. Nevertheless she forgot to be annoyed at his presence in the theatre for he amused her with his comments about people on and off the stage and Terry was strangely silent. The play was a particularly inane bit of fluff and seemed to be making a great hit. Ruth could imagine the trend of his thoughts, the discouragement attendant upon doing his best and seeing it fail, and watching the success of an inferior endeavour, yet she envied him, for he at least believed in his own work, and the more she studied and compared her work with that of other students, the more a creeping doubt of her own ability filled her brain.

“I need cheering up! Won’t you go to supper with me?” he asked as they passed out of the theatre.

His invitation was addressed to both Ben and Ruth, but Ben, with motives which Ruth understood only too well begged off.

“You know I have to report for rehearsals tomorrow morning, if you don’t mind I’ll run along.”

He evidently thought that Terry would like to be alone with Ruth, and Ruth, realizing his mistake, was yet too timid to protest, even had she not secretly desired to be alone with Terry. She had never gone to supper with a man alone. It would be an adventure, and the fact that she loved the man even though he did not know or care, made it even more thrilling. She bethought herself of her costume and wished that she were in evening clothes.

“I think I’d better take you some place near home,” said Terry. “If we use a cab we can save time, and there won’t be so many people downtown and we’ll be served quicker. I feel a bit guilty about keeping you out late.”

“I’m not a child,” said Ruth, pouting.

“I know you’re not, but you are—you’ll always be one, I hope.”

She was about to ask why, but they were entering a cab now and she did not ask. She wanted to ask where they were going, but she did not ask that either. She found herself with Terry afflicted with a strange inability to talk. They rode almost in silence to Fourteenth Street and entered a most disappointing place.

Ruth’s idea of supper after the theatre was a place of soft lights and music with beautifully dressed women and flowers, and sparkling wine. She didn’t want to drink the sparkling wine herself or even to wear the beautiful gowns, but she wanted to see them.

The place they entered was a low ceiled, dark paneled room with no music visible or audible. There were white spread tables, but the women around them were far from beautiful, the men undistinguished in the extreme—matrons on the heavy order with men who were quite obviously, even to Ruth’s untrained gaze, their lawful spouses. Both men and women were giving more attention to their food, than to their companions and they were drinking—beer.

“It’s quiet here and we can talk,” said Terry, quite oblivious to Ruth’s disappointment, but when they were seated he did not talk.

“Tell me about the new comedy you’re writing,” said Ruth, remembering the axiom that it is always tactful to talk to a man about his own work.

“No; I want to forget my work and myself. Let’s gossip. Tell me about Gloria’s husband.”

In this Ruth thought she detected the interest of a jealous suitor.

“Professor Pendragon is very charming and very clever and good looking. He is taller than Gloria, and apparently has no particular vocation, for he has given up astronomy. His interest in art he calls a fad; he lives alone in a suite in the Belton Hotel and about ten days ago he became mysteriously paralysed—his right leg up to the knee. That’s all I know,” said Ruth, “except that he’s one of the most fascinating men I’ve ever seen and I can’t understand why any woman would ever give him up. He’s almost as wonderful as Gloria herself. I’d like to say that he is ugly and old and disagreeable for your sake, but he isn’t.”

Terry looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment and then ignored her inference if he understood it at all.

“That’s a lot of information to have collected all about one person,” he said. “They say it was a great love match and that they disagreed over some trifle. They met and were married in London and Gloria got a divorce in Paris less than a year later. Curious his turning up just now.”

“Why just now?” asked Ruth.

“Because Gloria is a woman who must at all times have some absorbing interest, and recently she hasn’t had one and it’s telling on her. She has fits of moodiness, and wild ideas that she never carries out—like the proposed sudden trip to Palm Beach. Two years ago when I first met Gloria she would have gone. If only I could finish my comedy and make it a real success with Gloria in the star rÔle—”

“You would really like to do things for Gloria,” said Ruth.

“Yes; I’m awfully fond of her. She’s been my friend and has helped me ever since I first met her.”

“Then, please, can’t you persuade her to get rid of George?”

There was an intense appeal in Ruth’s voice that surprised Terry more than her request.

“Why? How would that help her?”

“I can’t explain it exactly. There are several reasons. One is that Gloria has been living quite beyond her income—I suppose I shouldn’t tell these things even to you, but I am worried about her and perhaps you can help—and she simply refuses to give up her big house because it serves as a refuge for professional people, friends of hers, out of an engagement. Of course all these people think that Gloria has unlimited means or they wouldn’t come. She won’t even let me help her, though I could quite easily. It’s because she really needs money that she’s gone to work in motion pictures. I imagine that George is an expensive servant and I thought if we could make her discharge him, she could get some one else for less money. Of course that wouldn’t make much difference in her expenses—I understand that—but it would be a start. It’s a lot of small economies that count, you know,” she said gravely.

“I had no idea that Gloria didn’t have lots of money. Her second husband was Darral Knight, a man who had made a fortune in toilet preparations. It was he who gave her the house on Gramercy Square. Then she married Brooks Grosvenor and he settled an income on her when they were divorced. I always supposed that it was ample. Certainly from what I’ve heard of the man he would have it fixed so that she could not get anything but the income, and even that would be forfeited if she married again.”

“The income isn’t large, not really large enough to afford such a big house, and Gloria has gone in debt a lot and now she’s working to pay it off. You see she’d have enough money if she would consent to live differently.”

“But Gloria is not the sort of person who will ever live differently. I have often wondered how she got by in such a big house with perpetual guests and only two servants, but I suppose she just didn’t want to bother with any more. But that isn’t the reason you want her to get rid of George, is it? It really wouldn’t make any appreciable difference, would it?”

“No—there are other reasons too, but I’m afraid to tell you.”

“Something you don’t like to put into words?”

Ruth nodded.

“I think I know. I’ve thought of it myself and I don’t like to put it into words either, but I will, so that we can understand each other perfectly—a necessary thing if we are to help Gloria.” He paused looking at her, and seemingly trying to gather courage for what he was about to say.

“You think that George is in love with his mistress.”

Ruth’s horrified face revealed that Terry had put into words something quite foreign to anything in her thoughts.

“Don’t look so horrified, it sounds terrible to us—it is terrible, but you must remember that George is a Hindoo, not a nigger, and that he is well educated, and that in many parts of the world, the idea of a black man loving a white woman is not so repugnant as it is here. I wouldn’t admit it for a long time myself, but it’s the only plausible explanation of a lot of things. Perhaps Gloria has told you that when she first met George he was a magician mahatma, who had been playing in London music halls and that he had been out of work for some time on account of illness. Out of gratitude, apparently, he offered to serve her. Later when he had quite recovered his health he could easily have gone back to his former work, but he didn’t go, though regardless of what Gloria pays him, it must be much less than he could make on the stage. If you’ve observed too, you will have seen that his attitude, while quite respectful, is never the attitude of a servant, and toward Gloria’s men friends his attitude is almost offensively disrespectful, especially when she is not present. He even hates me. I’ve thought for a long time that she ought to get rid of him, but I can’t go to her and tell her what I think, for certainly Gloria doesn’t suspect anything like that.”

During this explanation, Ruth, recovered from the first shock of his words, was thinking rapidly. All her fears and superstitions came back one hundred fold in the light of Terry’s revelation. They gave reason and purpose to what she had seen and what she had suspected. She debated in her mind whether she dare tell everything to Terry.

“But evidently you had something else in mind—some other reason,” he continued. “What was it?”

She looked at his grey blue eyes and brown hair, his clear, fair skin and firm chin—he was Western of the West—he would never understand or believe.

“Nothing,” she answered. “I suppose it’s just that I sensed what you have said, without ever daring to put it into words even in my own thoughts. Couldn’t you try and tempt George back on to the stage?”

“I don’t know—I couldn’t, because he doesn’t like me, but I might get some one else to do it, that is if he hasn’t forgotten all his old tricks. Eleven years is a long time, you know.”

“Oh, he hasn’t—” but she decided not to finish her sentence.

The restaurant was almost deserted now, and Terry bethought himself, with many apologies, of his resolve not to keep Ruth out too late. He would have hurried into another cab, but Ruth protested that it was such a short distance and she wanted to walk. In reality she thought that in the darkness when she could not see his face so clearly she might find the courage to tell him. Yet she walked silent by his side, unable to speak. She was lost in the wonder of being alone with him—he was so tall and wonderful. She looked up at the stars and gratitude filled her heart. It was good to love, even when love was unreciprocated. She pitied women who had never loved, as she did, unselfishly—a love more like adoration than earthly passion. She wanted to help Terry and Gloria. She would rejoice in their marriage. If she could only solve their problems, she would not care what life held for her after that. It was an exalted mood for a girl of nineteen years, some months and days, and Terry, all unsuspecting, broke into it with words:

“I wish we could arrange to have Gloria and Professor Pendragon meet again,” he said. “Pendragon was the big love of her life, and no man ever having once loved Gloria could possibly be quite free of her sway. She made the other marriages just for excitement, I think. I can’t imagine any other reason. I’d like to have them meet again. It would be interesting to say the least. I’m horribly unmodern, but I believe that men and women love once and once only.”

It seemed to Ruth that there was a note of sad resignation and generous resolve in his voice.

“But I’ve promised Gloria that I will not let him know anything about her. It’s very generous of you to want to—to bring them together.”

For a moment Terry did not speak. He seemed to be considering her words and looked at her in a curious way that she did not understand.

“It’s not generosity—perhaps only curiosity,” he said. “Gloria and I have been such good friends—and I am tremendously fond of her. She is so beautiful and charming and talented, but just now I think she needs something, some one, bigger than her work.”

They had reached home, Ruth in a state of exalted pain and happiness. Terry loved Gloria; that was evident, but for some reason he did not hope to win her. With noble generosity he was hoping only for Gloria’s happiness—planning to bring her and Professor Pendragon together. Somehow it seemed that she and Terry were sharing sacrifice—he his love for Gloria, she her love for him. It gave her a feeling of sweet comradeship with him, that almost compensated for the pain of knowing that he did not love her. Perhaps behind her thoughts too there was the faint hope that if Gloria went back to her first husband, Terry might change the object of his affections, but this thought was only half defined, for at nineteen the idea of a man loving twice is very inartistic. To Ruth all real love was of the Abelard and Heloise, Paul and Virginia type.

Thus she thought in silence while Terry waited for her to unlock the door. The door opened to her key and she turned to say good-night to him, when her nostrils caught the overpowering perfume of some strange incense, and in the hall she saw the same blue haze that she had seen that night when she found Amy on the stairs. Terry, too, had smelled the incense, and paused, looking at her for explanation. Her heart was beating at a tremendous rate. Here was the opportunity that she had been seeking to secure an unbiased witness. She put her finger to her lips in sign of silence, as Amy had done that night, and drew him with her into the hall. Then she closed the door silently behind them. Without knowing why he imitated her example in silence. Inside the hall was heavy with the blue smoke and the perfume that seemed to be smothering them.

“Now I can show you why I want Gloria to send George away. He’s downstairs now, I think,” she was speaking in a low whisper. “I want you to see for yourself. I haven’t dared to tell any one for fear they wouldn’t believe. He’s down there,” she pointed. “Don’t knock or let him know you’re coming—I want you to see everything. Perhaps—I know it sounds a terrible thing to do, but if you could just look through the keyhole—”

She stopped abruptly, seeing Terry’s look of amazement at such a request.

“Believe me—it is better to do that—just look once and you’ll understand.”

She moved toward the rear of the house, tiptoeing noiselessly and beckoning him to follow. At the top of the short flight of steps she stopped again.

“Down there, behind that door,” she whispered.

As one preparing to dispel the foolish fears of a nervous woman, Terry advanced down the steps, yet such was the influence of the hour, the strange incense and Ruth’s manner that he walked softly. Ruth followed him, but at the bottom Terry did not bend down to look through the keyhole. Before Ruth’s frightened eyes he put his hand to the handle of the door, which swung inward at his touch.

A deeper blue haze than that above filled the room into which they looked. In the centre of the room George was kneeling—about his head a white turban was wound and he was wrapped in a long, black robe on which the signs of the zodiac were picked out in gold thread. Before him was placed an altar, which rose in a series of seven steps. At the bottom a lamp was burning with a blue flame, from which the clouds of incense were rising, almost obscuring what lay coiled on the topmost step which spread into a flat platform—an enormous serpent coiled, with its head lifted from the centre of the mass and swaying from side to side, seemingly in accompaniment to a low monotonous chant that George was singing, while he too swayed back and forth, for some moments seeming not to know that the door had been opened. Ruth could not understand the words of the chant, but from the tone they sounded like an invocation. George was praying to his reptile! Suddenly, as if he had just seen them, he lifted his hands and his voice rose, and the snake reared its head far into the air, so that they could see its darting, forked tongue. Then as George’s voice suddenly stopped on a high note the snake subsided again, and George rose to his feet and greeted them.

“Good evening,” he said, “I was just practising my box of tricks. You know I used to be a professional magician and Miss Mayfield has asked me to accompany her to the Christmas party in the country to help entertain the guests of the Peyton-Russells. The snake is quite harmless,” he continued, picking it up on both hands and dropping it over his shoulders. “Would you like to touch it?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Ruth, drawing back and instinctively clutching Terry’s arm. Terry did not accept the invitation either, but to Ruth’s surprise he seemed to accept George’s explanation of the strange scene as truth.

“We were attracted by the smell of the incense,” he explained, “thought it might be fire and we’d better investigate.”

“Certainly, quite right.” Never had George’s voice sounded so silky and lisping and sinister. He stood quite still, seemingly waiting for them to go, the snake coiled round his shoulders. Ruth was only too glad to make her escape and Terry followed her. In the hall he turned to her smiling.

“No wonder you were frightened if that’s what you saw, but you see it’s quite all right—Gloria knows about it and it hasn’t any significance. Of course snakes aren’t pleasant things to have in the house, but this one is harmless, so I hope it won’t disturb your sleep.”

“Do you believe what George said,” she asked.

“Of course, why not?”

“Because I don’t. He may be practising tricks for the Christmas party—that may be true, but there was no trick to what we saw just now—the snake was real, and the altar and the incense—and George was praying—he was praying to that snake.”

“Even so,” said Terry. “We’re not missionaries that we should try to convert the heathen. I don’t care how many snake worshippers there are in New York.”

“It isn’t that, Terry—I know it sounds weird, but the night I saw him before, was the night Professor Pendragon was stricken with paralysis—”

She stopped frightened by the lack of comprehension in Terry’s face.

“Don’t you see if George will worship a snake, he is the sort of person who will pray calamities on his enemies. If he loves Gloria, then he hates Professor Pendragon, because he is the only man Gloria has loved. When Pendragon’s name was first mentioned, you remember the Sunday morning I got the card to the water colour show, George was even more concerned than Gloria, and when I went he warned me to be careful what I said. I believe that he is responsible for Pendragon’s illness.”

Comprehension had dawned in Terry’s face, but with it Ruth could see a tolerant incredulity and a wonder that she could believe such nonsense.

“It’s reasonable enough that George hates Pendragon, but even if he does hate him and even if he was actually praying for him to be harmed, that doesn’t give a prop snake the power to carry out his wishes.”

“It isn’t the snake; it’s the power of George’s concentrated thought.”

“Thoughts can’t harm people,” said Terry.

“But they can—thoughts are things and evil thoughts are as powerful as good ones.”

She could almost see the thoughts passing through Terry’s brain. He was looking at her, assuring himself that she really was sane and had been up to this night quite normal, almost uninterestingly normal, and even while she tried to make her beliefs clear she was conscious of a feeling of exultation because for the first time she was actually interesting the man.

“I’ve heard of Indian fakirs who could paralyse parts of their own bodies so that knives could be thrust into them without causing the slightest pain, but I never heard of one who exercised such power over another person, but even if that were possible how would it help to send George away? If Gloria sent him away, he could still keep on thinking and worshipping snakes, too, for that matter,” he said, smiling.

“Professor Pendragon told me that if he had an enemy who was trying to harm him, he would try and destroy that enemy’s faith in his ability to harm. What we must do is destroy the snake first. George worships the snake or some power of which the snake is a symbol. Either way if we destroy the snake we destroy George’s confidence in his ability to harm.”

“I haven’t any objections to killing snakes. In my opinion that’s what the horrid beasts were created for, but this particular snake is probably very valuable—he belongs to the profession and everything.”

“Please don’t jest about it, Terry; it may be a matter of life and death. If I hear that Professor Pendragon is worse instead of better tomorrow, I will be sure. Then we must do something before it is too late. You must promise to help me.”

She laid her hand on his arm and looked up at him with such genuine fear and entreaty in her eyes that for a moment he understood and sympathized with all of her beliefs.

“Of course I’ll help,” he promised, “but now I’d best go, and you must go to bed and try not to dream of snakes.”