“But how can such a thing be cured? How can a thought, a dominant thought, be banished?” “It can, and—I can do it.” “You, Mrs. Tarbot? You?” “Yes, I. Did I ever tell you that I spent three years of my life in Paris?” “No.” “I did. I was one of the principal assistants of the great Dr. Weismann. When he lived he was the greatest mesmerist, the greatest hypnotist of his day. He accomplished more cures by hypnotism than I can describe to you. Now, the hypnotism of suggestion would, in case of need, cure your husband.” “But I don’t believe in it, nor, I am sure, does he.” “You may come to believe in it yet. When you do, send for me, and I will help you. I will do my best for you.” Barbara promised, feeling as she did so a vague sense of coming trouble. Soon afterwards she took her leave and hurried home as quickly as she could. CHAPTER XVIII. “TARBOT WILL TELL ME.” When Pelham left his wife he went into the Park. It was a foggy evening with frost in the air, and the fog was densest in the Park, as it always is. He walked under the trees watching the gas lamps, which shone feebly through the foggy atmosphere. He did not heed where he was going, his whole soul was absorbed in anxious thought. There were no nervous terrors now visible on his face. He held himself erect, and walked quickly. After a time he stood still under a lamp post, a look of resolution and strength visiting his face. “I’ll do it,” he said to himself. “I’ll do it, and I won’t waste another moment. The time has come for action, and I will act.” He left the Park, walked rapidly to the nearest telegraph office and sent a telegram to his wife:— “Don’t sit up for me should I be late.—Pelham.” This being despatched, he walked as fast as he could in the direction of Ashley Mansions. He ran up the steps of the well-known house and rang the bell. The old butler smiled with pleasure when he saw his face. “My mistress is dining at present, sir; but she’ll be sure to see you. This way, Sir Richard.” The man ushered him into the big dining-room. It was a somber apartment, with a dark, old-fashioned flock paper on the walls and heavy moreen curtains to the windows. The house was lit throughout with electric light, but even that failed to make the room look cheerful. A portrait of little Piers done by a celebrated painter had the place of honor over the mantelpiece. The picture had been executed about six months before the child’s death. The boy in rich velvet, a Vandyke collar surrounding his soft little neck, his dark hair flung back from his brow, was standing with one arm over the neck of a favorite boarhound. He was looking straight out into the world with his eager—almost too eager—gaze. The eyes, like those in every good portrait, followed the inmates of the room.