She came back presently with some light, nutritious broth in a bowl, and fed the girl gently from a tea-spoon. She swallowed languidly, and a few mouthfuls sufficed her appetite. Then she looked at the pleasant-faced nun, and said, languidly: "Good sister, I do not understand. Just now I was with Monsieur Van Zandt. He was wounded. Oh, how pale he was!" shivering. "Another minute, and I am here. How is it, and where is he?" The old priest had entered noiselessly, and the low voice was distinctly audible to his ears. He shuddered. He had just read in a paper of the mysterious disappearance of Eliot Van Zandt, who was supposed to have been murdered, and his body flung into the lake or the river. Hence the girl's strange words struck coldly on his senses. He thought: "Her soul has been parted from the body in that strange trance, and has taken cognizance of the man vainly sought for by friends and detectives. What if she could tell where he is hidden!" Muttering a prayer for the girl, he came up to the bedside. "Bless you, my daughter," he said, soothingly. "And so you have seen Eliot Van Zandt? Does he yet live?" She looked at him gently and with surprise. Perhaps, in the strange experiences of her trance, she was inured to surprises. "Holy father," she murmured, reverentially, then, gently. "I have seen him. He is not dead. He is not going to die. But he is very ill; he is dangerously wounded." The little nun chirped an "oh!" of vivacious wonder, but the priest silenced her by a warning glance. "Where is he? Where is Monsieur Van Zandt, my daughter?" he questioned, eagerly. "Where?" echoed Little Nobody. "Why, in the next room, doubtless, good father, for a minute ago I was with him, and then I found myself here so suddenly that it seemed a little strange to me." "Yes, it is strange," said the old priest, growing pale and hurriedly crossing himself. "But you are mistaken. He is not in this house. If you know where he is, tell me, daughter." She shut her eyes reflectively, opened them again, and answered, dreamily: "He was lying on a bed in a pretty room, where a lamp was burning all day. There was a red wound on his breast, and he was pale and ill. I do not know the house, but Madame Lorraine can tell you, for it was her servant, Mima, that I saw giving him a glass of water." CHAPTER XV. The nun looked at the old priest with round eyes of wonder. "Father Quentin, what strange thing is this?" she uttered, fearfully. "Ask me not to explain it, my good daughter; it is a manifestation of psychic power beyond human explanation," he replied, hastily quitting the room to seek the mother superior. As a result of his interview with her, he was soon on his way toward Esplanade Street and Mme. Lorraine. Seldom had the footsteps of such a holy man crossed the threshold of the gay and volatile French woman. She grew pale through her rouge and her powder when she read the name upon his card, and sent word that she was not at home.