and walked about the room in order to recover command of his
face and voice. "Truly the miserable fanatic has wrought well. He has
promised himself that his spirit, freed from the body, will be able to
possess and control his victim. The mother will understand and accept
this. Will Viola?" The thought of her, dominated by this new and
revolting delusion, filled him with dismay and horror. "She, too, will
be smitten with remorse, and the scale may be turned against me and my
influence." This was indeed the most disturbing consideration of all.

Realizing at length that every additional minute of absence made his
explanation more difficult, he returned to his guests with impassive
face and resolute determination to control his thought even from
Viola's mind-reading power.

Kate saw at once that some dark thing shadowed him, "What is it,
Morton?"

"One of my acquaintances has met with trouble--financial trouble--and
wants my help. I'll tell you about it later," he curtly replied,
attacking the salad again. She was silenced though not satisfied, and
dinner was resumed in almost painful silence and in general
depression.

Viola was especially troubled by the change in Morton's face, and with
a desire to be of some comfort to him softly said: "Perhaps you would
rather not go to the theatre to-night. Please don't do so on our
account."

Her glance and her tone, both more intimately sympathetic than she had
hitherto permitted them to be, touched him deeply, and with an effect
of throwing off his gloom he cheerily responded: "We will not let any
outside matter interfere with our happiness. There is nothing to be
gained by staying at home. Please forget all about this interruption."

As he spoke she sat with hands before her, gazing straight at him with
eyes that slowly lost their outward look. Her eyelids fell, she began
to whiten and to droop, and her hands twitched and trembled.

Seized for an instant with an unreasoning fear--a belief that she had
been able, after all, to penetrate his mind and read its dreadful
secret, Morton sat irresolute, in the grasp of a blind despair, a
palsy of the will. Clarke's dead hand seemed at the instant more
powerful than the living man had been. This stupefaction lasted but a
single second, for back to the young scientist's heart, like a
swelling wave, came the red blood of his anger, his love, his
mastering will. Rising swiftly but calmly, he caught her hands in his
saying, gently: