"Do not do so again. Will you agree to all this? I promise you unexampled prosperity for ten years. At the end of that time I shall want you elsewhere. And you must agree to take a journey with me." "A long one, sir?" Brown's voice was just a shade satirical. M. De Bac smiled oddly. "No--in your case I promise a quick passage. These are all the conditions I attach to my gift of six thousand pounds to you." Brown's amazement did not blind him to the fact of the advantage he had, as he thought, over his visitor. The six thousand pounds were already his, and he had given no promise. With a sudden boldness he spoke out. "And if I decline?" "You will return me my money, and my book, and I will go elsewhere." "The manuscript, yes--but if I refuse to give back the money?" "Ha! ha! ha!" M. De Bac's mirthless laugh chilled Brown to the bone. "Very good, Brown--but you won't refuse. Sign that like a good fellow," and he flung a piece of paper towards Brown, who saw that it was a promissory note, drawn up in his name, agreeing to pay M. De Bac the sum of six thousand pounds on demand. "I shall do no such thing," said Brown stoutly. M. De Bac made no answer, but calmly touched the bell. In a half-minute Simmonds appeared. "Be good enough to witness Mr. Brown's signature to that document," said De Bac to him, and then fixed his gaze on Brown. There was a moment of hesitation, and then--the publisher signed his name, and Simmonds did likewise as a witness. When the latter had gone, De Bac carefully put the paper by in a letter-case he drew from his vest pocket. "Your scientific people would call this an exhibition of odic force, Brown--eh?" Brown made no answer. He was shaking in every limb, and great pearls of sweat rolled down his forehead. "You see, Brown," continued De Bac, "after all you are a free agent. Either agree to my terms and keep the money, or say you will not, pay me back, receive your note-of-hand, and I go elsewhere with my book. Come--time is precious." "And from Brown's lips there hissed a low 'I agree.' "Then that is settled," and De Bac rose from his chair. "There is a little thing more--stretch out your arm like a good fellow--the right arm." Brown did so; and De Bac placed his forefinger on his wrist, just between what palmists call "the lines of life." The touch was as that of a red-hot iron, and with a quick cry Brown drew back his hand and looked at it. On his wrist was a small red trident, as cleanly marked as if it had been tattooed into the skin. The pain was but momentary; and, as he looked at the mark, he heard De Bac say, "Adieu once more, Brown. I will find my way out--don't trouble to rise." Brown heard him wish Simmonds an affable "Good-day," and he was gone. CHAPTER III. "THE MARK OF THE BEAST."