He pointed the “you” with a jabbing forefinger as he spoke it, standing in front of Mr. Newman in the lamplight and talking down to him.

“Oh!” said Mr. Newman, “I see—­yes!  A hundred years, ago I was part of my Maker’s unfinished plan of to-day.”

“Were you?” said Carrick, snapping at him.  “You were, eh?  Part of—­ we’ll see!  Come over to the big chair and undo your collar.”

Mr. Newman rose; the big arm-chair was his place when Carrick hypnotised him, and the loosening of his collar was part of the ritual.

“What is the idea?” he asked, fumbling at his stud.

“Tell you afterwards,” said Carrick.  “If I told you now, you’d not get it out of your mind.  Can’t you get that collar off, man?”

“It was stiff,” apologised Mr. Newman, arranging himself in the large chair.  “How are you going to do it?”

Carrick’s hot hand pressed his head back on the cushions.

“Shut up,” he was told.  “Let yourself go, now; just let yourself go.”

The chair faced the blank, bare wall of the room; there was nothing in front of Mr. Newman for his eyes to rest on and take hold of.  Carrick’s hands no longer touched his head; he was alone in his chair, in a posture of ease, with the gear of his mind slacked off, his consciousness unmoored to drift with what-ever current should flow about it.  He knew, without noting it, that something like a fog was creeping up about him; the pale wall became a bank of mist, stirring slowly; his pulse was a rhythm that lulled him faintly.  He—­ the aggregate of powers, capacities habits that made the sum of him—­ was adrift, flowing like a vapor that leaks into the air and thins abroad.  A coolness was on his forehead as of a little breeze.

Carrick, behind the chair, saw that his head drooped, and came round to look at him.  He seemed to slumber with his eyes half open, and his plump hands, white and luxurious, were clasped in his lap.  Carrick considered him and then crossed to his desk to get his pipe.  He expected to have to wait for some time.

But it was less than five minutes before Mr. Newman stirred like a man who moves in his-sleep and emitted a long gusty sigh.  His hands unclasped; he drove up to consciousness like a diver who shoots up through strangling fathoms of water to the generous air above.  Life was compelling him; through the confusion of his senses he felt Carrick’s hand on his shoulder and heard him speaking.

“Feeling quite all right—­what?  Here, drink some of this.  It’s only water.  A drop more?  Right!”

Mr. Newman pushed the glass away and sat upright, staring wide-eyed into the curious face of Carrick, who bent over him, tumbler in hand.

“All right?” asked Carrick again.

“Yes—­now,” replied Mr. Newman slowly.  “But—­what did you do to me, Carrick?”

Carrick gave a relieved snort and set the tumbler down on the mantelshelf.