The room was pitchy dark. He listened acutely. All was still as the grave. He strained his ears to catch Miss Jones's breathing. "A light sleeper!" A very light sleeper. Strain his ears as he might he could not catch the slightest sound. Mr. Bennett hesitated. As an artist he was averse to violence. In cases of necessity he was quite equal to the occasion, but in cases where it was not necessary he preferred the gentler way. And where a woman was in question, under hardly any provocation would he wish to cut her throat. He had chloroform in his pocket. If Miss Jones was disagreeable he could make his peace with that. But if she left him unmolested should he stupefy her still? He decided that while she continued to sleep she should be allowed to sleep, only it would be well for her not to wake up too soon. He moved across the room. Instinctively, even in the thick darkness, he knew the position of the chest of drawers. He reached it. He quickly discovered the little top drawer on the left-hand side. In a remarkably short space of time he had it open. Then he began to search for the red leather box. He gleamed the lantern into the drawer so that its light might assist his search. While he was still engaged in the work of discovery, suddenly the room was all ablaze with light. "Thank you. I thought it was you." A voice, quite a musical voice, spoke these words behind his back. Mr. Bennett was, not unnaturally, amazed. The sudden blaze of light dazzled his eyes. He turned to see who the speaker was. "Don't move, or I fire. You will find I am a first-rate shot." He stared. Indeed, he had cause to stare. A young lady--a distinctly pretty young lady--was sitting up in bed holding a revolver in her hand, which she was pointing straight at him. "This room is lighted by electricity. I have only to press a button, it all goes out." And, in fact, it all went out; again the room was dark as pitch. "Another, it is alight again." As it was--and that with the rapidity of a flash of lightning. Mr. Bennett stood motionless. For the first time in his professional career he was at a loss, not only as to what he ought to say, but as to what he ought to do. The young lady was so pretty. She had long, fair hair, which ranged loose upon her shoulders; a pair of great big eyes, which had a very curious effect on Mr. Bennett as they looked at him; a sweet mouth; through her rosy lips gleamed little pearl-like teeth; and a very pretty--and equally determined--nose and chin. She had on the orthodox nightdress, which, in her case, was a gorgeous piece of feminine millinery, laced all down the front with the daintiest pink bows. Mr. Bennett had never seen such a picture in his life. "I am Miss Cecilia Jones. You are Mr. Bennett, I presume--George Bennett--'My George,' as Hannah says. Hannah is a hypnotic subject. When I am experimenting on her the poor dear creature tells me everything, you know. I wonder if I could hypnotise you."