Bean felt that he and the Countess were a pair of shrewd skeptics.

The third bell rang and a heavy tread was heard on the stairs.  The mere sound of its mounting was impressive.  The Countess laid a reminding finger on her lips, as she moved toward the door.

There appeared an elderly man, in a black frockcoat, loose-fitting and not too garishly new, a student’s coat rather than a fop’s.

“Is this Perfesser Balthasar?” inquired the Countess in her best manner.

“At your service, Madam!” He permitted himself a courtly inclination, conferred upon the Countess a glistening tall hat, and then covered his expansive baldness with a skullcap of silk which he drew from an inner pocket.

“I feared we was discommoding you,” ventured the Countess, elegantly apologetic; “your secatary said you was out advisin’ one the Vandabilts—­”

“A mere trifle in the day’s work, Madam!” He brushed it aside with an eloquent hand.  “My mission is to serve.  You wished to consult me?”

“Not me; but this young gentaman here—­”

“Ah!” He turned to face Bean, who had risen, regarding him with serious eyes and twirling a curled moustache meditatively.

“I see, I see!  An imprisoned soul seeking the light!” He came nearer to Bean, staring intently, then started with dramatic suddenness as if at an electric shock from concealed wires.

“What is this—­what is this—­what is this?”

Bean backed away defensively.  The professor seemed with difficulty to withdraw his fascinated gaze, and turned apologetically to the Countess.

“You will pardon me, Madam, but I must ask you to leave us.  My control warns me that I am in the presence of an individuality stronger than my own.  His powerful mind is projecting the most vital queries.  I shall be compelled to disclose to him matters he would perhaps not wish a third person to overhear.  I see a line of mighty rulers, ruthless, red-handed—­the past of his soul.”

The Countess murmurously withdrew.  The two males faced each other.

[Illustration:  “I feared he was discommoding you,” ventured the Countess, elegantly apologetic]

The professor was a mere sketch of a man, random, rakish, with head aslant and shifty eyes forever dropping away from a questioner’s face.  He abounded in inhuman angles and impossible lines.  It seemed that he must have been rather dashingly done in the first place, then half obliterated and badly mended with fumbling, indecisive touches.  His restless hands unceasingly wrung each other as if he had that moment made his own acquaintance and was trying to infuse a false geniality into the meeting.

When he spoke he had a trick of opening his mouth for a word and holding it so, a not over-clean forefinger poised above an outheld palm.  It seemed to the listener that the word when it came would mean much.  His white moustache alone had a well-finished look, curving jauntily upward.