“You might call at her hotel and see her in the morning,” he ventured to suggest. “No, I’ll see her to-night. I’ll be here at the door when this infernal business is over, and I will see and speak to her. I want to lift the weight from my conscience, if possible, and I _will_ speak to her.” “But, think of the shock to her. My friend, is it best?” “Best? Perdition take me! I don’t know what is best. Leave me! Go back into the hall and tell your friends I am sick—vertigo—jimjams—anything. But leave me to think.” “But,” began Nathan, loth to leave him by himself in his excited condition. “Go in! I can’t be spoken to now. Go back into the hall. Will you?” he exclaimed vehemently. Nathan turned away slowly and reentered the building, beset with many misgivings. What might not this irascible and tortured man do if left alone? Mrs. Lucien had begun her reading. She held in her hand a knife which had been submitted to her for test. “I am sure the person to whom this knife belongs is one of very orderly habits, or was. The present owner has not had it very long. I can see the woman to whom it formerly belonged. She has auburn hair, and is rather below the medium height. She is laughing, and says she won the knife on a philopena.” “Is this true?” asked the chairman, taking the knife from Mrs. Lucien and holding it up. “It is true,” responded a man from the audience. “I am acquainted with the knife’s history.” Suddenly an idea presented itself to Nathan, upon which he immediately acted. He picked up one of the Major’s gloves which, in his agitation, he had withdrawn and left behind him, and motioning to an usher, asked him to place it upon the table for Madame Lucien’s reading. Then he awaited results with eager curiosity. One after another the articles were taken up and read. “This brings me face to face with an aged woman,” she said, as a thimble was presented. “She calls ‘Annette, Annette.’” A woman across the aisle from Nathan began to sob. He noticed the tawdry showiness of her attire, and read in her face a pathetic history as she stood up to reclaim the thimble. “It was my mother’s,” she sobbed, as she dropped back into her seat. Then Madame Lucien’s fingers lifted the glove Nathan had sent to her. “I am sure the owner of this glove is a person of very positive character,” she began. “He will combat any irrational belief, or one not proven to his satisfaction. I can feel a chill of opposition. I—I—can—” Mrs. Lucien began to breathe in gasps. Her hands shook. Nathan was frightened at the spasm of agony which swept her face. She dropped the glove and stretched out her hands helplessly.