part in such doubtful proceedings. Sir Henry, while not venturing to

offer any direct explanation, was yet reminded at once of some very

remarkable and surprising feats he had seen performed by a fakir in

India, who had told him the name of his future wife, made a mango-tree

grow and bear fruit before his eyes, and sent a boy to climb up a loose

end of twine till he disappeared in space, whence he was precipitated in

fragments a few minutes later, to get up and walk away one moment

afterwards, at the first touch of the fakir’s wand, as cool and

unconcerned as if nothing had happened. Everybody had a theory which

satisfied himself; and every theory alike seemed pure bosh to Will

Deverill.

To everybody’s surprise, however, Florian’s melodious voice, after that

one interruption, took no further part in the brisk discussion. The

world rather expected that Florian would intervene with some abstruse

hypothesis of telepathic action, or enlarge on the occult influence of

soul upon soul, without the need for any gross and palpable link of

material connection. But Florian held his peace. He had an idea of his

own, and he wasn’t going to impart it for nothing to anybody. Only once

did he speak. “The man has eyes in the back of his head,” a lady had

cried after one trick in profound astonishment.

“Say, rather, the man has eyes in the tips of his fingers,” Florian

corrected gravely. For he was no fool, Florian.

The Seer heard him, and darted a strange glance at his face. This man

Wood was too clever. The Seer must square him!

The evening wore away, and conjecture died down. The Seer mixed with the

throng in his private capacity, told good stories to the men with a

strong Western flavour, said pretty things to the women with Parisian

grace, and flashed his expressive eyes into theirs to point them.

Everybody allowed he was a most agreeable man, and everybody thought his

performance “simply marvellous.”

Florian waited on the door-step as the Seer was leaving. “I’ll walk home

with you,” he said, with an air of quiet determination.

The Seer stared at him hard. “As you like,” he answered, coldly; but it

was clear from his tone he distrusted Florian.

They walked round the corner for some yards in silence. Then Florian

spoke first. “There was only one thing I didn’t quite understand,” he

began, with a confidential air, “and that was how the dickens you

managed to get those gummed envelopes open.”

The Seer stood still for a second, and fronted him. They were in a

lonely street. “Now, you look here, Mr Florian Wood,” the American said

quietly, dropping back all at once into his native dialect and his

native accent, “you lay low this evening. You thought you spotted it. I

saw you lay low, and I knew pretty well you meant to come round and have

it out some time with me. Well, sir, what do you mean by insinuating to

a gentleman like me that I broke those there envelopes? That’s an

imputation on my honesty and honour; and out West, you know, we answer

questions like that only one way . . . with a six-shooter.”

He spoke with the menacing air of an angry bully. But Florian wasn’t

exactly the sort of man to be bullied; small as he was, he did not lack

for courage. If Mr Joaquin Holmes was tall and big-built, why, Florian

was backed up by all the strength of the police of London. The

Englishman smiled. “Yes, you do, out West, I know,” he answered, calmly;

“but in London, that style’s very much out of fashion. We keep a police

force on purpose to prevent it. Now, don’t let’s be two fools. I lay

low, as you say. If you want me to go on lying low in future, you’ll

answer me sensibly, like a man of the world, and trust my honour. If you

want me to expose you, you’ll tell lies and bluster. You’ve had twenty

pounds down from my friend Mrs Palmer for this evening’s entertainment.

That’s first-rate pay. You can’t earn it again, if your system’s blown

upon.”

The Coloradan darted a furtive side-glance at Florian. This sleek-faced,

innocent-looking, high-flown little Englishman was more dangerous, after

all, than the Westerner imagined. But he blustered still for a while

about his honour and his honesty; he was ashamed to throw up the sponge

so easily. Florian listened, unmoved. All this talk fell flat upon him.

At last, when the Seer had exhausted his whole stock of available

indignation, Florian interposed once more, bland and suave as ever:

“It’s a very good trick,” the small man said, smiling, “and I don’t know

how you managed that part about the envelopes. . . . Besides, I never

met such delicacy of touch in my life before—in a sighted person!”

At that word, Joaquin Holmes gave a perceptible start. He saw its

implications. It is the term which the blind in asylums or the like

invariably apply to the outside world with normal vision.

Florian noticed the little start, all involuntary as it was; and the

Seer in turn observed that he noticed it. No man can play the

thought-reading or spiritualist game unless endowed with exceptional

quickness of perception.

“How did you know I’d ever been blind?” he asked, quickly, taken aback

for a moment, and making just that once an unguarded admission.

“I _didn’t_ know it,” Florian answered, with equal frankness. “I didn’t

even guess it. But I saw at once you’d at least been bred and brought up

among the blind. My own grandfather was blind, you see, and my uncle as

well; and I’ve inherited from them, myself, some germs of the same

faculty. But you’ve got it stronger than anyone I ever saw in my life

till now. . . . Besides, I want to know how you managed those envelopes.

I hate being baffled. When I see a good trick, I like to understand it.

Remember, I have influence in the press and in Society. I can serve your

purpose. But I make it the price of my lying low in future that you tell

me the way you managed about the envelopes.”

The Seer seized his arm. “You’re a durned smart chap,” he said, with

genuine admiration. “Nobody, even in America, ever guessed that trick;

and we’re smarter out there, I reckon, than the run of the old country.

Come along to my rooms, and we’ll talk this thing over.”

“No thank you,” Florian answered, with a quiet little smile. “My friends

wouldn’t know where I’d gone to-night. Your hint about six-shooters is

quite too pregnant. But if you care to come home to my humble chambers

in Grosvenor Gardens, and make terms of surrender, we can see this thing

out over a whiskey and soda.”