When the last expected guest had arrived, the doctor made a few remarks to the company. “I have invited you here to-night,” he said, “to witness an experiment, which, if I am not mistaken, I have the distinction of being the first to attempt. I have to-day taken the law in my own hands; but, if the theory on which I have been working is correct, justice will not be deprived of its victim. “To-day, one hour previous to his electrocution, I hypnotized Jean Lescaut, the man who poisoned his wife, strangled his child, and who was sentenced to death last July. While under my influence I told him that the current of electricity which would be sent through his body would not kill him, but would only put him to sleep, from which to-night I would awaken him. “After he was pronounced dead by the prison doctor, I secured his body for dissection, and have had it brought into the next room. Now, if a theory on which I have been working for the last year is correct, the impression which I left on his brain, has kept that electricity from producing death; and, at my command, Jean Lescaut, though to all appearances a corpse, will speak to us to-night.” There was a stir of expectation among the doctors present as Van Horne stepped into the adjoining room. Presently he returned wheeling a light operating chair, over which a sheet was thrown. “If everything should not happen in accordance with my theory, of course what happens to-night is under the seal of the profession,” he observed quietly, as he lifted the cloth. “I wish you all to examine this body and state whether or not the man is dead.” The doctors crowded about the figure in the chair, and used every known means to detect the presence of life in the body. At the end of ten minutes every one declared that Jean Lescaut was dead, that it was impossible to discover a sign of life. [Illustration: “He turned the reflector so that the rays fell on the pallid, upturned face.” (See page 121.)] Dr. Van Horne pushed the operating chair with its strange burden directly under the electric light, turning the reflector so that the strong rays fell full on the pallid upturned face. He passed his hands lightly and rapidly over the man’s temples. “Jean Lescaut,” he said slowly, “can you hear me?” There was no sign of life on the part of the sleeper, and Van Horne repeated his question, speaking more sharply. Then, hardened though they were by numberless horrible scenes at the operating table, many of the doctors shuddered; for, slowly, indeed so slowly that the motion was barely perceptible, the figure in the chair began to nod its head. “Answer me,” cried Van Horne, raising his voice, and taking both the man’s hands in his own. One of the doctors, younger than the others, raised the window and thrust his head out into the cold air. The room was becoming oppressive. Slowly Jean Lescaut’s mouth opened. The lips parted, but no sound came forth. “Speak,” cried Van Horne sternly.