She drew off a simple gold band set with three turquoises. He laid it upon the cushion, turning it between his fingers as he did so. In a single glance he had read the inscription engraved inside. His ruse was undetected; her eyes had roved about the room. He turned to her again. "You are twenty-seven years old. You have a lover, or, rather, a man is making love to you. I do not advise you to marry him. You have traveled a good deal and will take another journey within a year. Something is happening in connection with a male relative that worries you. It will not be settled for some time. Are there any questions you would like to ask?" "I think you have answered them already," she replied. He leaned back, to shake his hands and pass them across his forehead, theatrically. Another bubble had broken in his consciousness. "Oliver Payson!"—the name came sharply to his inner ear like a voice in a telephone. Oliver Payson—he recalled now where he had seen the name—_upon the newspaper cut pinned to the door of Madam Grant’s bedroom_. Like two drops of quicksilver combining, this thought fused with that suggested by the mole on the girl’s cheek. "Clytie Payson"—this name came to him, springing unconjured to his mind. He determined to hazard a test of the inspiration. He simulated the typical symptoms of obsession, trembled, shuddered and writhed in the professional manner. Then he said: "Would you like a clairvoyant reading? I think I might get something interesting, for I feel your magnetism very strongly." She assented with an alacrity she had not shown before. Her eyes opened wider, she threw off her lassitude, awakening to a mild excitement. "Let me take your hands again—both of them. This is something I don’t often do, but I’ll see what I can get." He shut his eyes and spoke monotonously: "I see a name—C, l, y—" The girl’s hands gave an involuntary convulsion. "—t, i, e. Is that it? Clytie! Wait—I get the name—" Beneath slightly trembling lids, a fine, sharp glance shot out at her and was withdrawn again. It was as if he had stolen something from her. "Payson!" The girl withdrew her hands suddenly; she drew in her breath swiftly, paling a little. "That’s my name, Clytie Payson! It’s wonderful! Go on, please!" She gave him her gracilent, dewy hands again, and he thrilled to their provocative spell. He took advantage of her distraction to enjoy them lightly. When he spoke there was no hesitation in his voice. "I don’t understand this! I don’t know who these people are, or where they are, and it seems ridiculous to tell it. But there is a fearfully disordered room with the sun coming in through dirty, broken windows. The floor is covered with rubbish, there’s no furniture but a few old boxes. I see two women and a little girl. They are in old-fashioned costumes." Clytie’s face was pale, now, and she watched him breathlessly.