Meyer. Their eyes met; hers were full of defiance, and his of
conscious power.

"I do not want any luncheon, Mr. Meyer," she said.

"But I am sure that you do. Please come down and have some. Please come
down."

The words were spoken humbly, almost pleadingly, yet to Benita they
seemed as a command. At any rate, with slow reluctance she climbed down
the shattered wall, followed by her father, and without speaking they
went back to their camping place, all three of them, Jacob leading the
way.

When they had eaten, or made pretence to eat, he spoke.

"I see that your father has told you everything, Miss Clifford, and of
that I am glad. As for me, it would have been awkward, who must ask your
forgiveness for so much. But what could I do? I knew, as I have always
known, that it was only possible to find this treasure by your help.
So I gave you something to make you sleep, and then in your sleep I
hypnotized you, and--you know the rest. I have great experience in this
art, but I have never seen or heard of anything like what happened, and
I hope I never shall again."

Hitherto Benita had sat silent, but now her burning indignation and
curiosity overcame her shame and hatred.

"Mr. Meyer," she said, "you have done a shameful and a wicked thing, and
I tell you at once that I can never forgive you."

"Don't say that. Please don't say that," he interrupted in tones of real
grief. "Make allowances for me. I had to learn, and there was no other
way. You are a born clairvoyante, one among ten thousand, my art told me
so, and you know all that is at stake."

"By which you mean so many ounces of gold, Mr. Meyer."

"By which I mean the greatness that gold can give, Miss Clifford."

"Such greatness, Mr. Meyer, as a week of fever, or a Matabele spear, or
God's will can rob you of. But the thing is done, and soon or late the
sin must be paid for. Now I want to ask you a question. You believe in
nothing; you have told me so several times. You say that there is no
such thing as a spirit, that when we die, we die, and there's an end. Do
you not?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then tell me, what was it that spoke out of my lips last night, and how
came it that I, who know no Portuguese, talked to you in that tongue?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You have put a difficult question, but one I think that can be
answered. There is no such thing as a spirit, an identity that survives
death. But there is such a thing as the subconscious se