and stretched out a meditative finger. He spoke in
that agreeably academic manner which, at the beginning of their
acquaintance, had always entertained Susie, because it contrasted so
absurdly with his fantastic utterances.

'It was a strange dream that these wizards cherished. They sought to make
themselves beloved of those they cared for and to revenge themselves on
those they hated; but, above all, they sought to become greater than the
common run of men and to wield the power of the gods. They hesitated at
nothing to gain their ends. But Nature with difficulty allows her secrets
to be wrested from her. In vain they lit their furnaces, and in vain they
studied their crabbed books, called up the dead, and conjured ghastly
spirits. Their reward was disappointment and wretchedness, poverty, the
scorn of men, torture, imprisonment, and shameful death. And yet, perhaps
after all, there may be some particle of truth hidden away in these dark
places.'

'You never go further than the cautious perhaps,' said Susie. 'You never
give me any definite opinion.'

'In these matters it is discreet to have no definite opinion,' he smiled,
with a shrug of the shoulders. 'If a wise man studies the science of the
occult, his duty is not to laugh at everything, but to seek patiently,
slowly, perseveringly, the truth that may be concealed in the night of
these illusions.'

The words were hardly spoken when Matilde, the ancient _bonne_, opened
the door to let a visitor come in. It was Arthur Burdon. Susie gave a cry
of surprise, for she had received a brief note from him two days before,
and he had said nothing of crossing the Channel.

'I'm glad to find you both here,' said Arthur, as he shook hands with
them.

'Has anything happened?' cried Susie.

His manner was curiously distressing, and there was a nervousness about
his movements that was very unexpected in so restrained a person.

'I've seen Margaret again,' he said.

'Well?'

He seemed unable to go on, and yet both knew that he had something
important to tell them. He looked at them vacantly, as though all he had
to say was suddenly gone out of his mind.

'I've come straight here,' he said, in a dull, bewildered fashion. 'I
went to your hotel, Susie, in the hope of finding you; but when they told
me you were out, I felt certain you would be here.'

'You seem worn out, _cher ami_,' said Dr Porhoet, looking at him. 'Will
you let Matilde make you a cup of coffee?'

'I s