“So am I, Miss Ogilvy,” he answered, with heartiness, “I mean to see you. But,” he added, studying her, “you do not look very well.” She smiled rather pathetically, and said in a quick voice: “No, I took a cold on that journey. You see I am rather an invalid, which is why I live here—while I do live—what they call _poitrinaire_.” Godfrey shook his head, the word was beyond him. “_Anglicé_ consumptive,” she explained. “There are lots of us in Switzerland, you know, and on the whole, we are a merry set. It is characteristic of our complaint. But never mind about me. There are two or three people here. I daresay you will think them odd, but they are clever in their way, and you ought to have something in common. Come in.” He followed her into the beautiful cool saloon, with its large, double French windows designed to keep out the bitter winds of winter, but opened now upon the brilliant garden. Never before had he been in so lovely a room, that is of a modern house, and it impressed him with sensations that at the moment he did not try to analyse. All he knew was that they were mingled with some spiritual quality, such as once or twice he had felt in ancient churches, something which suggested both the Past and the Future, and a brooding influence that he could not define. Yet the place was all light and charm, gay with flowers and landscape pictures, in short, lacking any sombre note. Gathered at its far end where the bow window overlooked the sparkling lake, were three or four people, all elderly. Instantly one of these riveted his attention. She was stout, having her grey hair drawn back from a massive forehead, beneath which shone piercing black eyes. Her rather ungainly figure was clothed in what he thought an ugly green dress, and she wore a necklet of emeralds in an old-fashioned setting, which he also thought ugly but striking. From the moment that he entered the doorway at the far end of that long saloon, he felt those black eyes fixed upon him, and was painfully aware of their owner’s presence, so much so, that in a whisper, he asked her name of Miss Ogilvy. “Oh!” she answered, “that is Madame Riennes, the noted mesmerist and medium.” “Indeed,” said Godfrey in a vague voice, for he did not quite understand what was meant by this description.