“Mr. Blake,” she said, after pausing a second, “do you remember what we were talking about that day when we last rode out together?”

“We were talking of Mr. Voltaire,” I said.  “Have you found out anything more about him?”

“No, I have not.  Is there any mystery connected with him?”

“I think there is.  I have an indistinct kind of feeling that both he and the Egyptian are deceivers, while I am sure that Mr. Voltaire is—­is your enemy.”

“I have no doubt he is,” I said.

She looked at me strangely.

“I had not been in Temple Hall two hours before that man had marked me as one that he would fain be rid of.”

“Indeed,” she said; “then if that is the case, you should listen to my advice.  Have nothing to do with him.”

“But I must have something to do with him, and with his friend the Egyptian as well.”

“Don’t,” she said anxiously; “the two work together, and both are cunning as serpents.  I believe,” she continued, after a pause, “that the thought-reading and mesmerism were somehow designed to injure you.  I think somehow they are acquainted with forces unknown to us, and will use them for evil.”

“Yes, I believe all that,” I said.

“Then why must you have any dealings with them?”

“Because they will have dealings with me; because they are plotting against me; because there are forces, over which I have no control, drawing me on.”

“But why will they have dealings with you?  Why are they plotting against you?”

“Because Voltaire knows that I love, with all my soul, the woman he wants to win for his wife.”

A curious look shot across her face.  What was it?  Love, astonishment, pain, vexation, or joy?  I could not tell; but my tongue was unloosed.

“Do I annoy you, astonish you, Miss Forrest?” I said.  “Forgive me if I do.  I have been regarded as a woman-hater, a society-avoider.  That is because I never saw a woman in whom I was sufficiently interested to court her society.  I have heard it said that such characters fall in love quickly, or not at all.  The first day I saw you I fell in love with you; I love you now with all my soul.”

She looked at my face steadily, but did not speak a word.

“Voltaire has found out this, and he too wants you for his wife; so he has been trying—­is trying—­to drive me away from here.  How I cannot tell you; but what I have said is true!” I spoke rapidly, passionately, and I saw that her face became alternately pale and red, but she did not reply.

“Am I bold to speak thus?” I asked.  “I think I must be, for I have scarcely known you a week.  But I cannot help it.  My life is given up to you.  If I could but know that my love were not in vain!  If you could give me some word of hope!”

A beautiful look lit up her eyes; she opened her mouth to speak, when a voice shouted—­

“Come, Justin; don’t loiter so.  We shall not get back in time for dinner, if you do.”