to the house, you will stand, and look, and seek for a window convenient for entry. It may be that you will find one open, as you did mine; if not, you will open one. How,—that is your affair, not mine. You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house.’ 

 The monstrosity of his suggestion fought against the spell which he again was casting upon me, and forced me into speech,—endowed me with the power to show that there still was in me something of a man; though every second the strands of my manhood, as it seemed, were slipping faster through the fingers which were strained to clutch them. 

 ‘I will not.’ 

 He was silent. He looked at me. The pupils of his eyes dilated,—until they seemed all pupil. 

 ‘You will.—Do you hear?—I say you will.’ 

 ‘I am not a thief, I am an honest man,—why should I do this thing?’ 

 ‘Because I bid you.’ 

 ‘Have mercy!’ 

 ‘On whom—on you, or on Paul Lessingham?—Who, at any time, has shown mercy unto me, that I should show mercy unto any?’ 

 He stopped, and then again went on,—reiterating his former incredible suggestion with an emphasis which seemed to eat its way into my brain. 

 ‘You will practise the arts of a thief to steal into his house; and, being in, will listen. If all be still, you will make your way to the room he calls his study.’ 

 ‘How shall I find it? I know nothing of his house.’ 

 The question was wrung from me; I felt that the sweat was standing in great drops upon my brow. 

 ‘I will show it you.’ 

 ‘Shall you go with me?’ 

 ‘Ay,—I shall go with you. All the time I shall be with you. You will not see me, but I shall be there. Be not afraid.’ 

 His claim to supernatural powers, for what he said amounted to nothing less, was, on the face of it, preposterous, but, then, I was in no condition to even hint at its absurdity. He continued. 

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