“What kind of powers?”

“Well, I don’t know—­every kind—­just powers—­mystic, occult powers.”

“I don’t care to commit myself without more details,” I answered with a caution that seemed to be needed.

“Well, sir, that woman has ’em—­she has powers—­she certainly has.  There is something in her eye that paralyzes the will; you look at her and you say yes to anything she suggests.”

“For example—­”

“Well, I’ve just agreed with her that the Argus isn’t what it ought to be.”

I gasped.  This indeed savored of the blackest magic.

“What did she do to you?”

“Just looked at me, that’s all,—­and took it for granted.”

“Heavens!  You’re shivering!”

“You wait—­wait till she talks to you!  She’s promised to give me a little book,” he went on dejectedly, “’One Hundred Common Errors in Writing and Speaking,’ and she says the split infinitive is a crime in this nineteenth century.  But, say, this paper would never get to press if I took time to unsplit all my infinitives.”

“Well, put Billy Durgin to work on her case right away,” I said to cheer him.  “If the woman talks like that, I’ll bet Billy can find some good reason why she ought to push on after the Colonel.”

Again his deeply thoughtful gaze bore upon me.

“I’m puzzled,” he said,—­“honestly puzzled.  I don’t know whether she’ll be good for this town or not.  She may in a way—­and in a way she may not.  She will be disturbing,—­I can see that already,—­but she is stimulating.  She may stir us up to nobler endeavors.”

“Did she say so?”

“Well—­uh—­something of the sort.  I believe that was the expression she used.  I’ll tell you what you do.  You come along with me and see the lady right now.  They’ve had dinner by this time.”

Together we went and were presently climbing the stairs that led to the second floor of the City Hotel.

Mrs. Potts received us graciously.  Upon me she bestowed a glance of friendly curiosity, as does a kind physician who waits to be told of symptoms before prescribing.  Upon Solon she bent a more knowing look, as upon one whose frailties have already been revealed.  She gave us chairs and she talked.  Little Roscoe Potts writhed near by upon an ottoman and betrayed that he, too, could talk when circumstances were kindly.  The detail of their personalities, salient in that first moment, was that Heaven had denied them both the gift of reticence.

“Yes—­I’ve been telling Mr. Denney—­I feel that there is a work here for me,” she began briskly.  “I felt it strongly when I perused the columns of the newspaper which Mr. Denney was thoughtful enough to send me.”

Solon’s eyes uneasily sought the cabbage-like flowers in the faded carpet of the room.

“And I feel it more strongly now that I have ventured among you,” continued the lady, glowing upon us both.