“Mr Balsamo will see you,” said the secretary, emerging through a double black portiere.  “The fee is a guinea.”

He resumed his chair and drew towards him a book of receipt forms.

A guinea!

However, Adam paid it.  The receipt form said:  “Received from Mr ——­ the sum of one guinea for professional assistance.—­Per Balsamo, J.H.K.,” and a long flourish.  The words “one guinea” were written.  Idle to deny that this receipt form was impressive.  As Adam meekly followed “J.H.K.” in to the Presence, he felt exactly as if he was being ushered into a dentist’s cabinet.  He felt as though he had been caught in the wheels of an unstoppable machine and was in vague but serious danger.

The Presence was a bold man, with a flowing light brown moustache, blue eyes, and a vast forehead.  He wore a black velvet coat, and sat at a small table on which was a small black velvet cushion.  There were two doors to the rooms, each screened by double black portieres, and beyond a second chair and a large transparent ball, such as dentists use, there was no other furniture.

“Better give me your hat,” said the secretary, and took it from Adam, who parted from it reluctantly, as if from his last reliable friend.  Then the portieres swished together, and Adam was alone with Balsamo.

Balsamo stared at him; did not even ask him to sit down.

“Why do you come to me?  You don’t believe in me,” said Balsamo, curtly.  “Why waste your money?”

“How can I tell whether I believe in you or not,” protested Adam Tellwright, the shrewd man of business, very lamely.  “I’ve come to see what you can do.”

Balsamo snapped his fingers.

“Sit down then,” said he, “and put your hands on this cushion.  No!—­palms up!”

Balsamo gaped at them a long time, rubbing his chin.  Then he rose, adjusted the transparent glass ball so that the light came through it on to Adam’s hands, sat down again and resumed his stare.

“Do you want to know everything?” he asked.

“Yes—­of course.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”  A trace of weakness in this affirmative.

“Well, you mustn’t expect to live much after fifty-two.  Look at the line of life there.”  He spoke in such a casual, even antipathetic tone that Adam was startled.

“You’ve had success.  You will have it continuously.  But you won’t live long.”

“What have I to avoid?” Adam demanded.

“Can’t avoid your fate.  You asked me to tell you everything.”

“Tell me about my past,” said Adam, feebly, the final remnant of shrewdness in him urging him to get the true measure of Balsamo before matters grew worse.

“Your past?” Balsamo murmured.  “Keep your left hand quite still, please.  You aren’t married.  You’re in business.  You’ve never thought of marriage—­till lately.  It’s not often I see a hand like yours.  Your slate is clean.  Till lately you never thought of marriage.”