A bizarre figure, in his linen robe, he ran off. Moris Klaw waved me to follow him. The door of his sister’s room was closed. He knocked, but there was no reply. He turned the knob and went in, whilst I waited in the corridor. “Ailsa!” I heard him call, and again, “Ailsa!” then, following an interval, “Are you all right, dear?” he whispered. “Oh, thank Heaven it is finished!” came a murmur in Ailsa Brearley’s soft voice. “It _is_ finished, is it not?” “Quite finished,” he answered. “Just look at my hair!” she went on, with returning animation. “My head was so bad--I think that was why I took it down. Then I must have dropped off to sleep.” “All right, dear,” said Brearley. “I want you to come downstairs; be as quick as you can.” He rejoined me in the corridor. “She was lying with her hair strewn all over the pillow!” he whispered, “and she had been burning something--ashes in the hearth----” Ailsa came out. She seemed suddenly to observe her brother’s haggard face. “Is there anything the matter?” she said, quickly. “Oh! has something dreadful happened?” “No, dear,” he answered, reassuringly. “Only Doctor Fairbank was overcome----” She turned very pale. “He is not ill?” “No. He became faint. You can come and see for yourself.” Very quickly we all hurried downstairs. Moris Klaw, on his knees beside the doctor, was trying to force something between his clenched teeth. Ailsa, with a little cry, ran forward and knelt upon the other side of him. “Ralph!” she whispered; “Ralph!”--and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He sighed deeply, and with an effort swallowed the draught which Klaw held to his lips. A moment later he opened his eyes, glaring wildly into Ailsa’s face. “Ralph!” she said, brokenly. Then, realizing how tenderly she had spoken--using his Christian name--she hung her graceful head in hot confusion. But he had heard her. And the wild light died from his eyes. He took both her hands in his own and held them fast; then, rather unsteadily, he stood up. As his features came more fully into the light, we all saw that a small bruise discoloured his forehead, squarely between the brows. Then Brearley, who had been back into the study, came running, crying: “The papyrus! And my translation! Gone!” I thought of the ashes in Ailsa Brearley’s room. IV “My friends,” rumbled Moris Klaw, impressively, “we are fortunate. We have passed through scorching fires unscathed!” He applied himself with vigour to the operating of the scent spray. “God forgive me!” said Brearley. “What did I do?” “I will tell you, my friend,” replied Klaw; “you clothed a thought in the beautiful form which you knew as your sister! Ah! You stare! Ritual, my friends, is the soul of what the ignorant call magic. With the sacred incense, _kyphi_ (yes, I detected it!), you invoked secret powers. Those powers, Mr. Brearley, were but _thoughts_. All such forces are thoughts.