“Madame,” he said, “I tell you to go elsewhere because I am a charlatan, an impostor. My trances are mere pretense, the method of my replies a farcical mummery, the answers transparent concoctions from the hints I extract from my dupes.” “You say this to try me,” she cried; “you are subjecting me to some sort of test.” “Madame,” he said, “look at me. Am I like a man playing a part? Do I not look in earnest?” She regarded him, convinced. “But,” she wondered. “Why do you thrust this confession upon me?” “I fear,” he hesitated, “that a truthful answer to that question would displease you.” “Your behavior,” she said, “and your utterances are so unexpected and amazing to me, coming here as I have, that I must request an explanation.” Vargas straightened himself in his chair and looked her in the eyes, not aggressively, but timidly. He spoke in a low voice. “Madame,” he said solemnly, “I have told you the truth about myself because you are the one human being whom I am unwilling to harm, wrong or cheat.” “You mean,”----she broke off, bridling. “Ah, Madame,” he cried, “I mean nothing that has in it any tinge of anything that might offend you. What does the north star know or care how many frail, storm-tossed barks struggle to steer by it? Is it any the less radiant, pure, high because so many to whom it is and shall remain forever unattainable strive to win from its rays guidance towards havens of safety? A woman such as you cannot guess, much less know, to how many she is the one abiding heavenly beacon. How could you, who need no such help from without, realize what the mere sight of you afar off must mean to natures not blest with such a heritage of goodness? How many have been strengthened at sight of your face, wherein they could not but see the visible outward expression of that inward peace and serenity that comes from right instincts unswervingly adhering to noble ideals? You have been to me the incarnate token of the existence of that righteousness to which I might not attain.” Mrs. Llewellyn had borne his torrent of verbiage with a look of intolerant toleration, of haughty displeasure curbed by astonishment. When he paused for breath she said, in a voice half angry, half repressed: “I quite understand you, I have heard enough, I have heard altogether too much of this; we will change the subject, if you please.” “I spoke at your command,” Vargas apologized, abashed, “and only to convince you of my sincerity in telling you that I am not worthy of being consulted by you.” “But,” she protested, carried away by her surprise, “you are called the greatest clairvoyant on earth.” “And I have schemed, advertised lavishly, spent money like water, bribed reporters, bought editors, cajoled managers, hoodwinked owners and won over their wives and daughters through laborious years to produce that impression. It is no growth of accident, no spontaneous recognition of self-evident merit.”