The alchemist pulled his chair close to the crystal as he was bid, and fixed his eyes upon it. Tring watched him closely from a distance. One minute—two minutes—three—the alchemist still looked at the crystal and Tring regarded him as a cat might regard a mouse that it was playing with. Four minutes—five. The alchemist still sat motionless, but his posture in the chair was changing slightly. His arms and neck seemed to be stiffening, his face was taking on the look of an entirely different person; his breath came regularly but in longer and deeper draughts than was his wont. His eyes became wide open and staring. “Listen,” Tring’s tone was sharp, commanding. “I am listening,” the reply came instantly. Tring trembled with excitement. Not only had the alchemist gone into this trance more quickly than he, Tring, had ever been able to send him, but he was still responsive to the student who had feared lest the agency of the crystal might render Kreutz unresponsive to him. But Tring had sent him into trances so many times that now his mind seemed to answer the student’s bidding automatically. “Tell me what you see.” “I can see a huge hall like an alchemist’s room, filled with braziers and glass instruments. In these instruments fluids of fire are rushing to and fro and near them are great copper kettles out of which are coming puffs of steam.” “It is the devil’s workshop that you are in,” said Tring sharply. “Do you see any men at work?” There was silence a moment as the alchemist’s consciousness went roaming through the vast room. “There is no one here,” he said at length. “Are there any manuscripts there?” demanded Tring. Silence again. Then—“Yes, on the wall hangs a parchment.” “Take it down.” “It burns my hands.” “Pay no heed to that. Your reward will be greater than your pains.” “It is in my hands.” Tring glanced involuntarily at the hands of the man in the trance. Curiously enough they seemed to be turning red as if exposed to a great heat. “Now read what the parchment says.” The alchemist replied slowly as if reading, and he spoke in the Latin tongue, “Here May One Find Things Which Be Neither Good Nor Evil But Which Are Sought of All Men.” “Good! Now unroll the parchment.” There was another silence. At length the alchemist said, “I have found somewhat.” “Read!” “Nay, I may not. It is in symbols.” “Then write.” Tring deftly slipped a piece of board across his knees and put into his fingers a kind of pen made of wood and a feather; this he had dipped into a pot of ink as thick as paint, and he guided it in the alchemist’s hand until it rested upon a piece of fresh white parchment that he laid upon the board. The alchemist wrote as follows: [Illustration: PerθΔ8 _Fit Lapis Philosophorum_] “What else?” The alchemist wrote: “_Quod primum incredibile, non continuo falsum est; crebro siquidem faciem mendacii veritas retinet._” “No. That’s nothing. Do you find other formulæ?”