"No--not notes.... Ah--poems."

The hypnotist raised his eyebrows. "How did she meet him?"

"Tripped coming down from the flying-machine from Paris--and fell into
his arms. The mischief was done in a moment!"

"Yes?"

"Well--that's all. Things must be stopped. That is what I want to
consult you about. What must be done? What _can_ be done? Of course I'm
not a hypnotist; my knowledge is limited. But you--?"

"Hypnotism is not magic," said the man in green, putting both arms on
the table.

"Oh, precisely! But still--!"

"People cannot be hypnotised without their consent. If she is able to
stand out against marrying Bindon, she will probably stand out against
being hypnotised. But if once she can be hypnotised--even by somebody
else--the thing is done."

"You can--?"

"Oh, certainly! Once we get her amenable, then we can suggest that she
_must_ marry Bindon--that that is her fate; or that the young man is
repulsive, and that when she sees him she will be giddy and faint, or
any little thing of that sort. Or if we can get her into a sufficiently
profound trance we can suggest that she should forget him altogether--"

"Precisely."

"But the problem is to get her hypnotised. Of course no sort of proposal
or suggestion must come from you--because no doubt she already distrusts
you in the matter."

The hypnotist leant his head upon his arm and thought.

"It's hard a man cannot dispose of his own daughter," said Mwres
irrelevantly.

"You must give me the name and address of the young lady," said the
hypnotist, "and any information bearing upon the matter. And, by the
bye, is there any money in the affair?"

Mwres hesitated.

"There's a sum--in fact, a considerable sum--invested in the Patent Road
Company. From her mother. That's what makes the thing so exasperating."

"Exactly," said the hypnotist. And he proceeded to cross-examine Mwres
on the entire affair.

It was a lengthy interview.

And meanwhile "Elizebe{th} Mwres," as she spelt her name, or "Elizabeth
Morris" as a nineteenth-century person would have put it, was sitting in
a quiet waiting-place beneath the great stage upon which the
flying-machine from Paris descended. And beside her sat her slender,
handsome lover reading her the poem he had written that morning while on
duty upon the stage. When he had finished they sat for a time in
silence; and then, as if for their special entertainment, the great
machine that had come flying through the a