“I suppose,” said Bellamy, “that all your magical lore would be quite beyond me.” “Oh yes, quite,” replied Clinton, “but I can show you what sort of power a study of that lore has given me, by a little experiment. Turn round, look out of the window, and keep quite quiet till I speak to you.” It was a brooding night. In the south-west the clouds made restless, quickly shifting patterns--the heralds of coming storm. The scattered sound of the traffic in Kingsway rose and fell with the gusts of the rising wind. Bellamy found a curious picture forming in his brain. A wide lonely waste of snow and a hill with a copse of fir trees, out from which someone came running. Presently this person halted and looked back, and then out from the wood appeared another figure (of a shape he had seen before). And then the one it seemed to be pursuing began to run on, staggering through the snow, over which the Shape seemed to skim lightly and rapidly, and to gain on its quarry. Then it appeared as if the one in front could go no further. He fell and rose again, and faced his pursuer. The Shape came swiftly on and flung itself hideously on the one in front, who fell to his knees. The two seemed intermingled for a moment.... “Well,” said Clinton, “and what did you think of that?” Bellamy poured out a whisky and soda and drained it. “Extremely impressive,” he replied. “It gave me a feeling of great horror.” “The individual whose rather painful end you have just witnessed once did me a dis-service. He was found in a remote part of Norway. Why he chose to hide himself there is rather difficult to understand.” “Cause and effect?” asked Bellamy, forcing a smile. Clinton took another pinch of the white powder. “Possibly a mere coincidence,” he replied. “And now I must go, for I have a ‘date,’ as they say in America, with a rather charming and profligate young woman. Could you possibly lend me a little money?” When he had gone Bellamy washed his person very thoroughly in a hot bath, brushed his teeth with zeal, and felt a little cleaner. He tried to read in bed, but between him and Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Night-Watchman’ a bestial and persistent phantasmagoria forced its way. He dressed again, went out, and walked the streets till dawn. Some time later Mr. Solan happened to overhear a conversation in the club smoking-room. “I can’t think what’s happened to Bellamy,” said one. “He does no work and is always about with that incredible swine Clinton.” “A kink somewhere, I suppose,” said another, yawning. “Dirty streak probably.” “Were you referring to Mr. Edward Bellamy, a friend of mine?” asked Mr. Solan. “We were,” said one. “Have you ever known him do a discreditable thing?” “Not till now,” said another. “Or a stupid thing?” “I’ll give you that,” said one. “Well,” said Mr. Solan, “you have my word for it that he has not changed,” and he passed on. “Funny old devil that,” said one.