“A scientific instrument, I presume?” continued Chassaigne, imperturbably, as if merely interested in a curiosity, twirling the support between his fingers so that the mirror rapidly revolved. Imperceptibly he leaned forward, brought it nearer to her eyes. “It suggests sleep, I think,” he continued in a quiet level voice that had suddenly acquired a peculiar intensity. “Sleep. Sleep, Fräulein!” She stared at it, open-eyed, stiffening curiously. A phrase of protest seemed frozen on her lips. He held it very close to her face, revolving the mirror in a long-continued series of rapid flashes before her eyes. “Sleep!” he commanded in his intense level voice. Her breast heaved in a long, sleepy sigh. She shuddered again, stiffened suddenly, sat rigid, entranced. Vincent, watching, crept forward, tense with anxiety. “What are you going to do?” he whispered. Chassaigne motioned him to silence with a gesture of his forefinger. He turned to the young woman. “You are asleep, are you not?” She did not reply. “You hear me?” “Yes.” Her lips moved, but beyond that she did not stir. “In that sleep you remember things which you had otherwise forgotten.” He turned to Vincent, whispered: “What is her name?” “Hélène Courvoisier.” Chassaigne bent over her, picked up her wrist with the three moles. “Do you remember Hélène Courvoisier?” “No.” “Not even the name?” “Not even the name.” There was a short silence, and then Chassaigne spoke again in insistent level tones. “I suggest to you that you are yourself Hélène Courvoisier!” Vincent, guessing the purport of the words, held his breath in suspense. To his despair the young woman responded with a far-away but genuinely mirthful laugh. “No! How absurd!” she said, laughing like a person under a drug. “I am Ottilie Rosenhagen! I was always Ottilie Rosenhagen!” She laughed again, hysterically, but more and more freely, more and more loudly, more and more the laugh of a person normally awake. Still laughing, she shuddered, passed her hand across her brow, relaxed suddenly from her stiff attitude--and ceased to laugh with a glance around of bewilderment. She fixed her eyes upon Chassaigne. “I--I think I feel unwell,” she said, rising brusquely from her chair. “Excuse me!--I--I cannot stay!” Without a glance behind her, she went swiftly from the room. Vincent watched her go, anguish and despair in his eyes. He turned to Chassaigne. “Well?” he asked, hoarsely. Chassaigne made a gesture of annoyance. He shrugged his shoulders.