"My dear Cly, you must remember that one’s whole mental evolution is merely the history of the conflict between reason and instinct, and reason is bound to win in the end. That’s the way we develop. The fact is, he _could_ do it and _did_ do it. He’s a charlatan and he has used a charlatan’s methods. I said he was clever. This giving up his studio was merely a kind of gambit. But he made a mistake when he tried to use a lot of cheap fakirs to help him out with you." "Oh!" She clenched her fists. "Don’t! I won’t stand it!" Her head dropped as if she were weary. Her eyes burned. "Oh, there’s good in everybody, the copy-books say," he returned. "But the fact is, Cly, he isn’t in your class, and never was. You should have seen that!" She looked at him without seeing him, her eyes caught meaninglessly by the garnet in his tie, clinging to it, as if it were the only real thing in the world. Her lips parted, the color was leaving her cheeks, she looked as frail as a ghost. Suddenly she threw off her reverie, and placing her hand on his arm, said, "Let me see them—the notes—Blanchard. There must be some horrid mistake. I want to clear it up immediately." "Very well, I’ll take you now, if you like. It isn’t far." She followed him out of the library as if hypnotized. They spoke little on the way. Cayley tried his best to arouse her, but finally gave it up as impossible. He watched her, preserving his usual phlegmatic calm. She walked with head erect, her chin forward, with her long, graceful gait, beside him, but never seemed two human beings further apart in spirit. Flora Flint opened the door to Vixley’s flat. She acted quite as if she belonged there and invited them in cordially, with an up-and-down scrutiny of Clytie as they passed in. Then she disappeared down the long, tunnel-like hall. Cayley took Clytie into the office where, refusing a chair, she stood like a statue, her eyes fixed on the door. Vixley entered, currying his beard with his long fingers. "Well, Mr. Cayley," he said, "what can we do for you? Like a sitting?" "Professor, you recall telling me something about some memoranda Granthope gave you, don’t you?" "I been thinkin’ about that, Mr. Cayley, and I don’t know as I ought to have said anything. I’m rather inclined to regret it." "You _have_ said something, and I’ve brought this lady down to show the memoranda to her," said Cayley. "H’m!" Vixley looked her over. "It ain’t exactly customary to show things like that, you know." "We’ve had all that out before. I’m here to see those cards."